Tristan's Story
by Ithil-valon
Summary: Tristran Award Nominee This story follows Tristan from Sarmatia to Britain and highlights what made him the Knight he became. It will touch on the lives of the other Knights and also explore how Arthur becomes thier leader in fact and in their hearts.
1. Default Chapter

Tristan's Story

Prologue

It is Enough that I See Him

_I think continually of those who were truly great...the names of those who in their lives fought for life, who wore at their hearts the fire's center. Born of the sun they traveled a short while toward the sun, and left the vivid air signed with their honor. _

_Stephen Spender_

The spring sun gently warmed the field where the two boys lay planning their next move. Nearby their horses grazed the newly sprouted grasses with relish as tails gently swished in contentment. Ten year old Trystam Delyens watched the cloud formations as his practiced eye discerned shapes that his best friend, Lyonell never could. For all his heart and fire, Lyonell just did not have an imagination. He believed in what he could see and feel and taste, not anything as fanciful as imagined shapes in fleeting clouds. Perhaps that is what made these two so compatible as friends, for their differences blended together to make one well-matched whole.

"There!" Trystam exclaimed, pointing to the sky. "Cannot you see it now, Nell?" he questioned. "It's the most beautiful eagle I've ever seen. He sails on the wind with grace and pride, and is free to roam the skies as he wishes."

Lyonell squinted his eyes and did his best to form an eagle out of the white puffs he saw floating overhead, but in truth it was all just meaningless forms to him. "No, Ty, I cannot. I'm sorry."

"Do not worry," he responded to his friend. A small, satisfied smile graced his lips. "It is enough that I see him."

Hundreds of years from this day, long after the bones for these two boys had turned to dust; a golden armlet would be excavated from the shores of the Oxsus River very near to where they lay now. The armlet would be in the form of an eagle griffin-head and would grace the halls of the British Museum as a reminder of the lost Sarmatian nation which ran from the Caspian Sea on its east to the Black Sea on its western most border and boasted the finest horses and horsemen in the world at that time. So mighty a nation could not long hope to escape the notice of the Roman Empire, and indeed did not, sealing the fate of Trystam, Lyonell, and countless other young Sarmatian boys. Their futures were determined the day the mighty empire fell and the Sarmatian cavalry pledged themselves and their sons to the service of the Roman Empire. This is the story of two of those sons.


	2. Chapter One

Tristan's Story

Chapter One

**Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or rights to this story and I make no profit from them. This AU story is strictly for enjoyment.**

**Extreme thanks to DJSparkles for her wonderful beta work, for her enthusiasm, humor, friendship, and all around help! You're the best, my friend.**

**AN: I will endeavor to be as historically accurate as possible. Most of my sources will be ones found online. The ritual that Trystam and Lyonell go through is loosely based on Maori and Tlingit customs. The shabo is a fictional nut used to make dye.**

_Let us hold to the light while we may, for darkness ever encroaches._

With a last look at the clouds, Trystam stood to his feet. At his sharp whistle the horses, which had been grazing nearby, trotted over. "Up, lazy bones; time for us to get back. We have lulled away the afternoon here."

"Do we have to?" came the sleepy reply.

"We have already been gone most of the day. My father will know that it did not take me this long to hunt."

"Mine won't," snorted Lyonell. "He knows I'm the worst hunter in the tribe. Ah well, let's go." Lyonell stood up and stretched. Even though the boys were the same age, Lyonell stood a good four inches taller and half again the size in width of his best friend.

To any stranger, the larger boy would have appeared to be the protector of the two. How wrong they would be, for though his stature was large and intimidating, his nature was as gentle as a newborn colt. Slightly rotund, Lyonell was also on the clumsy side.

No, it was the wiry Trystam who was most skilled of any of the boys from the tribe in hunting, riding, and fighting. He had been taught well by his father, who had served his time in the Romans and had risen to the heights of his position by virtue of his skills. Lean and hard muscled still, Trystam's father often worked with the boy, determined that his son would learn the necessary survival skills from him before he ever came under the tutelage of a Roman. He might just get one that didn't take his job seriously, and that could get Trystam killed.

"That's why you hunt with me," chuckled Trystam. "Everyone knows that I am the best hunter in the tribe."

"Ah, so that is the reason!" Lyonell jested. "Well, come then, esteemed hunter and let us head for home before some wolf decides to have us for his evening meal. Or could you single-handedly take him on as well?"

"I won't have to fight the wolf," quipped Tristan.

"Oh, and why is that?"

"Because," laughed the boy, "all I have to do is run faster than you!"

Lyonell puzzled over that statement for a few moments as the pair mounted their horses and turned back towards the tribe's encampment. They had ridden for about a mile when loud guffaws broke from behind Trystam.

"I get it, Ty, I get it!"

"It's about time, Nell."

"That is why you keep me around, my friend, because I laugh at your jokes."

"No," assured Trystam with a smile, "I keep you around because you would get yourself killed without me."

"And for that my mother loves you; so do I, come to think of it."

"Come, Nell, let's ride!" Trystam called back as he kicked his horse and galloped across the rolling landscape, a delighted whoop echoing behind him.

0-0-0-0-0-0-

Dusk was just settling when the two boys rode into their encampment. Trystam recognized immediately that all was not normal. Jumping off of Paska he soothed the horse as he scanned the seemingly empty village. Lyonell, for once, seemed to have grasped the lack of activity as well.

Leading Paska through the huts, Trystam looked for any sign of life. Fires still burned and pots of the evening stew simmered over the pits, so he knew that his family and the others of their small tribe had recently been here.

With a loud cheer, the skins were thrown back from the four huts which comprised their encampment and the tribe, their families, emerged. Confused, but no longer alarmed, Trystam walked over to his father.

"Father?" the boy questioned, glancing around. "What has happened?"

"Trystam, Lyonell, the time has come," began Trystam's father Alexei. "A rider came through this afternoon to report that the Romans are only a few days away."

Trystam and Lyonell shared a concerned glance. They had, of course, known this day would come, but until this moment it had been an abstract thought. Now, faced with the imminent arrival of the Romans, their future suddenly seemed much less romantic than it had only a few hours earlier.

Trystam raised his chin and squared his shoulders in a show of confidence meant to buoy his own and Lyonell's spirits as much as those of their mothers, who were both looking quite distressed at the moment.

"I would not have my son leave without the mark of our tribe…the mark of manhood." Alexei placed his hands on his son's shoulders and looked him in the eye. "You will leave this tribe with your warrior's mark, as I did, and it will forever tie you to the spirit of our tribe."

Turning his son towards the center of the camp, Alexei the bid the boys follow him to stand in front of the shaman, the tribe's spiritual leader. Behind each boy stood his father, who placed hands on their son's heads as they bowed in silent prayers of strength and wisdom for their coming trials and travels. Trystam and Lyonell's mothers, who had gone back into their respective huts, now emerged carrying small bowls and moved to stand on either side of the shaman. At the bidding of the holy man, all the men sat cross legged on the ground. The members of the tribe formed a supportive circle around the boys, their fathers and the shaman.

The two mothers brought forth the bowls, which contained shabo nuts, and kneeled beside the shaman. They offered a blessing to the godsand poured the nuts into the small pestle bowl of the shaman. With another blessing, the shaman began to grind the nuts to a fine powder. Taking a vial of oil from the Trystam's father, the shaman poured the sacred oil into the pestle bowl and mixed the dye to the proper consistency. Next he unrolled a treated wolf pelt to reveal the sharpened bones and animal teeth along with the mallet which would be used to apply the ritual tattoos of manhood.

Alexei motioned Trystam to lie down on the pelt in front of the shaman. Moving forward, the four other men of the tribe lay their hands on his legs and arms. The honorary place by his head was reserved for Alexei. All of the women and children moved back into their own huts for this part of the ceremony could only be observed by the men of the tribe.

The shaman began dipping the sharpened bones into the dye and applying it to their faces with small taps of the mallet. Trystam tensed slightly at the assault to his face, but his pride overrode any discomfort. Closing his eyes, he concentrated on taking deep even breaths. This was a moment that every young man anticipated and he was proud as he felt the gentle reassuring pressure of his father's hands on his head. He wondered whether he would ever see his father or his family again once the Romans came for him.

As the Shaman worked, Alexei kept his hands on his son's head. "Trystam, the spirit guide that I have chosen for you is the same one that my father chose for me, the eagle. Long has this spirit led our family, and he protected and guided me while I was in the service of the Romans. He shall do the same for you, my son."

The ceremony was repeated with Lyonell. Lyonell's father chose the bear as Lyonell's spirit guide, for the boy's strength and build easily lent itself to that symbol. "May his strength lead and guide you, my son," intoned Lyonell's father, closing the branding part of the ceremony.

The shaman washed the blood from the boy's faces and turned them around in a circle three times. The first circle represented wisdom, the second strength, and the third united the spirit of the tribe with that of the young warrior. At this point the women and children of the tribe returned forming one large circle around the boys, their parents and the shaman.

Placing his hand on Trystam's head, Alexei made the ceremonial announcement. "The child Trystam is no more; in his place is the warrior Tristan. May he live well, fight hard, and return to his family with honor."

Likewise, Lyonell's father pronounced the ancient words naming his son Lionel. Two days of feasting and singing followed the ceremony, and on the third day the Romans arrived.

_TBC_


	3. Chapter Two

Tristan's Story

Chapter Two

See Disclaimer on Chapter One

**Extreme thanks to DJSparkles for her wonderful beta work, for her enthusiasm, humor, friendship, and all around help! You're the best, my friend.**

_Author's Note: Please forgive the delay in posting this chapter. I will do my best to make future updates in a more timely manner._

The morning of the third day after the manhood rituals Tristan awoke to the sounds that had awakened him for years. He smiled to himself as he listened to ancient Barak coughing and hacking as he did every morning this time, and Lionel's baby brother crying for his morning milk. The sounds were at once comforting and irritating to the boy, who would really like to roll over and go back to sleep for while. Sighing at the continued sounds of the awakening camp, Tristan stretched and crawled out of his bedroll. He squinted as the bright morning light assaulted his eyes when he pulled back the animal skin from the doorway. A cold breeze stole any residual thoughts of sleep from his mind and he shivered as he walked over to the fire where his mother was stirring porridge in a black iron pot hanging over the fire.

"Good morning, Trystam..." his mother greeted him and then laughed lightly. "Ah, I forget…you are Tristan now, a warrior of our tribe. I'm proud of you, my son."

"Thank you, mother," the boy smiled. "Where are father and the other men?"

"They have gone to the sea for a purification rite." She saw the question in his eyes and explained before he could speak. "You and Lionel are new warriors, son, you do not require purification this year."

Satisfied, he glanced around the camp. "Do you need some more wood for the fire?"

Before she could answer, the sounds of hooves interrupted them as four Roman Cavalrymen came into view atop the hill closest to Tristan's family tent. Tristan's heart leapt into his throat as his future suddenly leaped into the forefront of his existence. What he had dreaded and anticipated his entire life was now before him. Well, he decided, whether I dread it or welcome it, it is here.

A crusty looking Centurion reigned in his horse as he approached the pair. "It's time, boy. Have you a horse?"

"Yes, Sir," answered Tristan. He whistled for Paska, who was grazing nearby.

Others of the tribe began to emerge from their tents. Tristan was vaguely aware of Lionel's mother crying and his own mother trying bravely to hold back her tears. Images swam in and out of his consciousness as he felt his world at once unfocused and yet more sharply imaged than ever before in his life.

Lionel came running out of his tent and tripped over his own feet, falling virtually at the feet of a second soldier's horse. Laughter erupted from the Romans as Lionel's cheeks burned in humiliation.

Anger flared across Tristan's vision at the derision heaped upon his friend. Walking purposefully over to Lionel, he helped his friend up. "Pay no heed, Nell."

The Centurion snorted at the show of bravado from the boy. 'You two, mount up; we've miles to cover this day."

For the first time, panic flared in Tristan's heart. "But my father is not here; I must say good bye to him."

"No time, boy," growled the Roman. "Mount up, I said, or your first lesson in the way of the legion will not be a pleasant one."

Before Tristan could object, his mother grasped his arm and turned him to face her. "Go son, please." Her work hardened hands cradled his cheeks as she looked into his eyes. One hand dropped down to lie upon his heart and he placed one of his larger hands on top of hers. Work hardened they might have been, but they were the hands of his mother and as dear to him as any in the world. She smiled at him through teary eyes. "Your father knows what is in your heart as he knows the path that lies before you. He has prepared you well; trust that, Tristan, trust him." The pleading in her voice touched a chord within him. To resist now would only bring shame to his father and possible harm to the women, children and old people here in camp.

With a last kiss to his mother's cheek, Tristan turned and leapt onto Paska's back. His mother walked over to lay her hand on his leg as nearby Lionel was mounting his own horse. "Remember, son, you bear the mark of your spirit guide. He will bind you to your tribe as we are bound to you. Never forget that we are with you. Trust your guide, son, he was chosen for you with care."

"Mother, tell father…tell him…"

"Come on, you two, now," urged the Roman, who was losing patience even as he turned his horse and began to trot away.

"I will, Tristan, I will! Remember son, your guide will lead you!" called his mother as he disappeared from sight over the hill. "He will lead you, my dear son," she continued, though she knew he could no longer hear her.

O-o-O-o-O

Each mile they rode took the boys farther and farther from the sea coast where they had spent their lives. To Tristan it was fascinating to see the scenery change from the rocky sea coast to the endless rolling plain. They rode with the Romans for a day and a half before coming to the next encampment where the farewell scene from their own village was repeated. Here three boys joined the group. Two were larger and apparently older then the third. Their names were Boris, Dagonet, and Degore. Of the three, Dagonet seemed the most appealing to Tristan, mostly because he was the quiet one the trio; he was also the oldest. Degore, the youngest, cried for much of the next four hours after they took their leave of the boy's homes. Boris chatted to himself and anyone else that would listen to him. Tristan glanced over at Lionel. He was concerned for his friend, for Nell had barely spoken a word since their leave taking.

The Romans left the boys to themselves for the most part, except for Quentas Longinus, who was the Centurion in charge of the troop. He could be gruff, but Tristan sensed that the man would be valuable in their training, for he could see qualities in the man that reminded him of his own father. Tristan thanked his spirit guide that his father had taught him much of what to expect in the training that was to come. He knew that many Sarmatians loathed the Romans and the pact that had been made by their forefathers, but Tristan's father had taught him to embrace his future and to make it a part of himself, for he would learn much that would prepare him for the future.

Each day the traveling troop stopped at more villages and added boys to the group. Alynore, Brumear, and Pelleas were added and then four days after that Lamorak, Lancelot, Percival and Gareth. Last to be added, near the great Black Sea were Bedevere, Gawain, and, the youngest member so far, Galahad, who seemed to be in shock from the leave taking. Gawain was from his tribe and kept the boy close to him, much as Tristan kept watch over Lionel.

By this time it was growing later in the season and the journey across the rest of the Empire was a cold and miserable one. Tristan was nearly beside himself with worry for Nell. Each day he tried to engage his friend in quiet conversation to keep his spirits up and to keep him from dropping into despair. Even Degore had stopped his crying and seemed to be adjusting to the situation, but Lionel continued on in his silent misery.

Quentas had watched the boys carefully as they made their way along the ancient trails crossing the empire. The boy Tristan would make a good knight, he was sure. The boy had already proven his worth to the Romanwith his hunting skills that kept the troop well supplied with fresh meat, which made a nice change from the hard tack they were used to eating. It was for that reason that he had been lenient so far with the bigger boy, the quiet, sulky one that Tristan was trying so hard to reach.

Quentas knew that he would have to make an example of him soon, if the situation did not change, or he would never last in the wilds of Britain. The Woads would make mincemeat of him, and Quentas was not about to let that happen. These were his boys now; they were the second group of young Knights to be assigned to him for training and he was bound and determined that they would be the best fighters, the most accomplished Knights the Roman Legion had ever known.

The Roman Legion was Quentas' home; basically it was the only home he remembered. It had provided him with a life of worth when he would have faced only a future of servitude otherwise. His skill and bravery had allowed him to rise to the rank of Centurion and he was proud of it. He owed his life to the Legion and it was his family. Now these boys were his family and he would do right by them or die trying.

As they rode he mentally ticked off the strengths and weaknesses he'd already noticed in the boys. It would take a while for the homesickness to fade, it always did, but they were beginning to show signs of bonding which is what he wanted. To be an effective fighting force of knights they would need to fight with a cohesiveness that was superior to that even of the Legions, the elite fighting force in the world. Each night after brushing down the horses and having dinner around the campfire Quentas would arrange games and training for the boys. He would sit back and watch, gauging their skills and their grit.

Tristan was a loner, even though he stayed right by Lionel's side. Quentas could recognize a lot of himself in Tristan. Lionel would take some work, though he had some size that would work to his advantage. He and Dagonet were the two largest of their little group. Boris, or Bors as Lancelot had taken to calling him, would make a fierce fighter. Brumear, Pelleas, and Alynore looked to him to be broad swordsmen while Gawain, Galahad, and Lamorak had builds that favored that of archers. Lancelot appeared to be the most naturally gifted with weapons.

Of course, all of them would learn to fight equally well with all of the weapons, but he liked to know where their expertise lay so that each could sharpen that skill first. It would be Quentas' job to determine … Until they were taken over by Arthur, who was presently training with Tribune Marcus Gallo, they were his responsibility.

_TBC_

Reviewer notes:

MissBubbles: Thank you for reading and taking the time to review. I'm glad that you like the story and are interested in reading more.

Op: Thank you so much for you outstanding comment! I'm very appreciative.

To those who are lurking: I hope that you continue to read and enjoy Tristan's Story.


	4. Chapter Three

Tristan's Story

Chapter Three

It had been a long day for the boys, Quentas and the Legionnaires. They had been traveling for many days now and the late season weather steadily worsened. The Sarmatians were all dressed for the cold weather, but the Romans had been forced to don bracae, woolen or leather skin tight trousers that reached just below their knees, and at which the Sarmations secretly laughed. Only Legionnaires in cold climates would wear the bracae, since Romans considered the wearing of pants or trousers to be against any standard code of dress.

Quentas had called an early halt to the travel for the day and they had quickly set up the camp with the boys taking the lead now as they fell into the routines that Quentas had been drumming into their heads as the traveled. First they would see to the care of their mounts, for the horse was the major weapon of the cavalry. Once the horses were brushed down, fed and watered, Bors, Dagonet, Lionel, Brumear, and Pelleas would quickly assemble the papilios, the leather tents favored by the Romans, while Alynore, Gawain, Galahad, and Lamorak gathered wood and built camp fires. Tristan, Degore, and Lancelot would hunt for game to supplement the buccellatum and frumentum, basically hardtack and corn, which were staples of a moving unit, and which the young Sarmatians, accustomed to the richly spiced dishes of their homeland, had quickly tired. The Romans set up a defensive piquet for the night.

Quentas was a good man, or so Tristan thought. He taught them much as they traveled, regaling them with stories of the history of the Empire and exploits of the Legions, particularly the legendary 10th Roman Legion, of which he had been a part. Tristan loved hearing the stories. All his life his father had told him similar tales, though his service was less wide spread than Quentas' because Alexei had been stationed for his entire time of duty in Britain, while Quentas had traveled throughout the empire with his various legions. Tristan loved his home and family, but he also longed to experience the excitement, the battles, and the camaraderie of knights that his father had spoken of so wistfully at times.

They enjoyed a dinner of rabbit stew, for the young hunters had been very successful this night, washed down by watered ale, confiscated from local families. Tristan had noticed that the populace would often freely give to the Romans to ensure that they kept moving on, and when goods weren't offered, the Romans had no problem taking what they needed, though they took only what was absolutely necessary.

After the evening meal, as always, Quentas had put them through sparring matches. This night he had paired them up and supplied each with a gladius. The gladius, the Roman short sword which was standard issue for the Legions, was doubled edged, about 18 inches long and 2 inches wide. It had a corrugated bone grip that Tristan found formed to fit his hand. He was fascinated by the weapon which swung easily and lightly but was also deadly. He found that it was much easier to wield at his size than the longer, heavier curved swords of the native Sarmatians. Perhaps he would grow into the weapon of his fathers, but for now this fit his arm much better.

"Halt," called Quentas. "Drop the shields."

Tristan moved to square off with Lionel as he usually did, but Quentas stopped him. "No, Tristan, this time you fight with Dagonet, and only you two will fight. The rest of you watch, learn," he called to the boys. "Gareth, collect the shields and stack them, then you may return to the circle."

"Yes Centurion," replied the boy as he quickly bent to gather the shields. He wanted to get the job done and get back to see the fight.

Tristan spared a quick glance at Nell and then moved to take up his position against Dagonet while the others formed loose circle around them. Dagonet smiled and dipped his head in salute to Tristan as he raised his gladius into a fighting posture. Tristan touched his short sword to his forehead, as he had seen his father do, and then whipped it into loose circles with his wrist action.

Quentas smiled and grunted his approval as he watched the boys spar. Tristan was far advanced in sword play and had obviously had some previous training in Roman techniques. Tristan was moving quickly and displaying skill, but Dagonet was his second best fighter at this point and he was using his greater size to his advantage.

Usually the other legionnaires gathered around their own fire and left the training to Quentas, but as the pitched battle between Tristan and Dagonet continued it drew their attention. The Romans admired skill in battle and these two were putting on quite a show for their age. In the way of soldiers of all time they began to wager on the outcome and a few called out encouragement to their favorite.

While the soldiers and the boys watched the pair fighting, Quentas observed the young Sarmatians, gauging their various reactions. Lancelot was fascinated by the action and perhaps just a bit jealous of the skill being shown. Quentas liked that. Lancelot would be an excellent knight once he conquered his temper. Bors, as usual, was talking to Degore, but the Roman could see that he kept his eye on the fighters while he kept up his running chatter. Degore and Galahad both looked a bit intimidated, for they were the two youngest and neither of them was as strong with a sword as with the bow, yet. Quentas would see that they became so, they just had to learn to trust him – and themselves. That would come as well. Alynore, Brumear and Pelleas were looking as though they too longed to fight with such skill. That was good. Percival and Gareth were watching with guarded expressions, and he noticed them both casting quick glances at Lancelot. Well, perhaps that was to be expected as the three came from the same village.

Quentas made a mental note to see that they were each paired differently as soon as they had adjusted a bit more to being away from home. He had found that it was advantageous during a great part of the trip to allow the young ones to stick with the boys from their own camps. It helped with the homesickness and fear of the unknown. To be effective as knights, however, they would need to learn to trust each other with their lives, and he intended to see them bond as a unit rather than as separate tribes.

The Centurion let his eyes travel back to the fighting pair. Both boys were nearing exhaustion but neither would submit and admit defeat. The man laughed with delight at that and rose to call a halt to the match. Sweat poured off of Dagonet and Tristan's arms were shaking with fatigue as Quentas stepped between them raising his hand to halt the match. "Enough."

Good-natured cheers and boos erupted from the Romans watching. Those who had wagered called out their guesses as to who Quentas would choose as winner.

"I declare a draw," announced the Centurion, to the disappointed guffaws of the Romans.

The young knights all rose and surrounded their friends. Lionel was patting Tristan on the back while the others mostly stood around Dagonet laughing and talking. Tristan stepped back away from the circle, dropped his sword and walked slowly off into the night. Lionel watched for a moment and made to follow him, but was stopped when Quentas' hand landed on his shoulder.

"No, Lionel, I want Lancelot to follow him."

"But I'm his friend," argued Lionel, only to fall silent as a scowl crossed the Centurion's face.

"Never question my orders," he said softly, watching as the boy's eyes grew large.

"Yes sir," he stammered, lowering his eyes.

Quentas continued to watch him for a moment before turning back to the group of Sarmatians. "Lancelot, follow me."

The boys all stopped talking as Quentas walked away from the circle followed closely by Lancelot.

"Well what do you make of that," questioned Bors to no one in particular.

"You don't think he's in trouble, do you?" questioned Degore nervously as he unconsciously moved closer to Bors and Dagonet, his fellow tribesmen.

"We'll find out when he wants us to find out," answered Brumear, the most uncurious and accepting of the bunch. Brumear had adjusted quickly to the group since leaving his tribe. He was a realist at heart and accepted that there was nothing he could do to change what was happening and therefore the quicker he adapted the better off he would be. By his quiet acceptance he had unknowingly lent stability to the group of young boys, especially Alynore and Pelleas who were from his tribe and seemed to follow his lead.

"Come on," suggested Dagonet, "let's get ready for sleep. I, for one am tired."

"You should be," laughed Bors, "that was quite a show. I would have done better, you understand, but you did quite well in my stead."

Dagonet picked up Tristan's gladius and placed it besides his own near the stacked shields. Following Dagonet's lead, the boys put their curiosity to rest and began their preparations for ending the day, as the Romans even had a system for such routine activities as that. Perhaps, if they were lucky, Quentas would end the day with one of his tales of valor.

Quentas led Lancelot several yards from the group before turning to face the curious boy. "Lancelot, I want you to follow Tristan and let him talk to you. I see leadership in you and I would like to see you begin to take on that role."

Lancelot was quiet for a moment, mulling over what the Centurion had said. "Why me? I am not the oldest, nor am I the biggest or even the most skilled."

Quentas nodded his head. "No, you are none of those things. But being the oldest, largest, quickest or even the most skilled has anything to do with leadership. You do not act rashly, Lancelot, except when your temper gets the best of you, and the other boys have observed this. I have watched them take their cues from you more than once. Even Tristan has, though I doubt he would admit it," he added with a smile. "Now, will you go and talk to him?"

"Yes." He paused and then added, "but what if I don't know what to say to him?"

"Just listen, Lancelot. Sometimes that is the best thing you can do for a friend."

O-o-O-o-O

Tristan was standing by a running stream. He didn't know exactly why he had walked away from the others – he just felt stifled all of a sudden. He stood there for a while just throwing rocks into the water as he let his emotions settle. A noise startled him from his reverie and he turned quickly, ready to defend himself.

Lancelot raised both hands to show he was no threat. "Sorry I startled you."

"So, why are you out here?" questioned Triston, a bit embarrassed to have been caught off guard.

"I could say I just wanted to take a walk, but we'd both know I was not telling the truth. I came to talk to you, Tristan."

There was an awkward silence for a while as both the boys got used to the company of the other. Neither one was a big talker, so it didn't take long for them to fall into an easy companionship as Lancelot sat down on the edge of the stream. Tristan stood for a moment longer and then joined him.

"I wanted to win," Tristan ventured after a while.

Beside him, Lancelot smiled into the darkness. He had decided to take Quentas' advice about listening and had been wondering whether or not they'd have to sit there all night before Tristan finally decided to speak. Lancelot took a deep breath and skipped a rock across the water. "Wanting to win is not a bad thing."

"I liked fighting, too," admitted Tristan, "maybe more than I should."

Lancelot thought over what Tristan was saying, wishing he knew for sure the right thing to say. In the end he decided that just being honest was the only way he knew to be. "I envied you tonight when you were fighting, Tristan." Beside him he could sense that the boy had turned to look at him. "We're going to be together for 15 years, fighting together for 15 years. Our lives will depend on each other."

Turning his body so that he could lean back against a tree and better look at Tristan, Lancelot continued, the relaxed position belied by the seriousness of his words. "I'm glad you liked fighting tonight because you were good, and Dag was good. That's what it's going to take to keep us alive. Right now you, Dagonet, and I are the best fighters, regardless of what Bors says," he added with a small chuckle. "The Roman is going to train us all, but I think it's up to the three of us to make sure the others learn all they should, especially Degore and Galahad. We are Sarmatians, not Romans. I don't want the younger ones to forget that."

Tristan nodded his head thoughtfully. "Quentas is a good man, but we must remain Sarmatian if we are to become the best knights. Only the best will survive for 15 years. My father was a knight. His best friend died only three months from the day they completed their service. His name was Paska."

"Your horse's name?" questioned Lancelot, intrigued by what Tristan was telling him.

"Yes, my horse's name. Father believed that he could see Paska's spirit in the stallion and that he would protect me."

"Do you believe that?"

"I don't know," admitted Tristan, "but my father believed it, and that is enough for me."

"Then let us hope that Paska's spirit will look after all of us. Shall we go back before Bors starts snoring?"

Tristan snorted, "Yes, I would like to sleep tonight. I'm glad he does not share my papilio."

Now it was Lancelot's turn to snort. "We're alone, Tristan, it's all right to call it a tent. Why do the Romans have to make up such fancy names for everything?"

The two boys were laughing as thy made their way back into camp. They found the group still up and sitting around one of the camp fires. A couple of the Romans were with them, but the rest were either playing their dice game, on the piquet or sleeping.

"Tristan, Lancelot," called Lionel, "join us! We are telling stories and I told them that you know some of the best ones, Tristan."

Tristan grimaced at that but sat down by Lionel all the same. "Why did you do that, Nell?" he hissed softly to his friend.

"Because you do," insisted Lionel.

"Come on, Tristan," laughed Gawain, "tell us a story. We've been listening to Lionel brag about you for some time now and I'm getting sleepy."

"Yeah, come on, Tristan," begged Degore, "tell us a story about home, please?"

Tristan shared a glance with Lancelot and nodded his head in acquiescence. "I will tell you of Batraz, the greatest of all Sarmatian warriors. He was rode with the greatest warriors in the land who were called the Narts. His steed was swift and beautiful and could fly like the wind when Batraz entreated him to do so. Batraz and his Narts would engage in great quests and defended our people against many foes. Batraz and his men were never defeated because Batraz wielded a magical sword. So long as Batraz fought with his sword they could not be defeated. But the day came when Batraz, weary with age, knew his time on this earth was at an end, and so not wanting his sword to fall into the wrong hands, cast it into the ocean. Soon after, he died and was laid to rest. To honor their fallen leader the Narts each placed their sword at the head of his grave and returned to their homes, never to ride together again. That is why we Sarmatians are buried with our swords at the head of our graves, to remind us of our homes and to honor Batraz, the greatest of our warriors.

The boys were quiet for some time, each thinking on the story and its ramifications. Slowly, one by one they went to their beds until only Tristan and Lancelot were left sitting by the fire. Lancelot smiled across the fire at Tristan.

_TBC_

A/N The legend of Batraz is an actual Sarmatian legend. It is believed that it might actually be a basis for the legends of Arthur with the Nerts being the Knights of the Round Table and the magical sword representing Excalibur.

All terms for Roman equipment are authentic.


	5. Chapter Four

**Tristan's Story**

Chapter Four

**"The leader who exercises power with honor will work from the inside out, starting with himself." Blaine Lee**

_From Chapter Three: The boys were quiet for some time, each thinking on the story and its ramifications. Slowly, one by one they went to their beds until only Tristan and Lancelot were left sitting by the fire. Lancelot smiled across the fire at Tristan. _

Something changed in Tristan as he looked back at Lancelot, whose face reflected the flickering light of the fire, his eyes appearing to burn with the flame. It was a profound moment for Tristan, though no flashes of lightening lit the skies, no crash of thunder echoed. The only sound was that of the snapping logs as the sap within them boiled out and sizzled in the flame. Occasionally a snore could be heard from one of the tents or a round of laughter erupted when the dice landed the right way for one of the Romans. Other than that the night was silent.

Up until that moment he had not committed himself to any of the boys except Lionel, but Tristan sensed that had now changed. Oh, he had watched Lancelot, certainly, gauging his skill, his temperament, and this character. His father had told him to watch carefully for the strengths and weaknesses of his fellow knights even as they we making their way across the lands, before their official training began, for his life might one day depend upon his being able to choose wisely upon whom he could depend. He respected Quentas for his skill, his loyalty and for the way he dealt with each of the boys. Tristan had observed men long enough to recognize one who had quality. Quentas was such a man – strict, unbending, but just. And now Tristan's heart was telling him that Lancelot was one he could respect as well.

The decision to tell the story about was Batraz was one that had come to him on the spur of the moment, and yet it seemed to reassure them all, reminding them that theirs was a rich heritage, one that was full of legends and warriors and valor. It would be imperative for them to retain their Sarmatian identify while integrating with the Romans. The trick was in knowing just how much of the Sarmatian independence to blend with the Roman discipline, or so his father had warned him. There was no pat answer, no formula to follow, Alexei had warned, for the mix of personalities and skill differed with each group of knights. A lot would also depend upon the Roman commander that was chosen to lead them. Alexei had prayed to his spirit guide for a Roman to lead them who would not be unyielding, but who would accept and utilize the inherent strengths of his knights. On this his son's survival would depend.

Lancelot leaned forward to toss another small limb onto the fire causing a shower of sparks to cascade into the air. Assured it would burn for a while longer, he leaned back onto his elbow and resumed his vigil. "So have you decided?"

The softly spoken question interrupted Tristan's musings. He frowned slightly and stared across the fire at Lancelot for several moments.

At Tristan's upraised eyebrow, Lancelot laughed softly. This one was not a talker. "I said, have you decided?"

"Decided what?" answered Tristan, as much to buy some more time as anything else. Tristan did not consider himself to be a deep thinker, or one that readily had the words others seemed to want to hear. He was a person of action, preferring to prove himself through what he did rather than from smoothness of speech.

Lancelot continued to gaze at him with an irritatingly smug look on his face. It was a look that Tristan would know well in the coming years. It was a look that said, 'I know exactly what you are thinking; you are not fooling me.' "Have you decided that you can trust me?"

Tristan inclined his head slightly, but never dropped his eyes. "For now…until you prove that I cannot."

Lancelot snorted at that remark. "So sure are you that I will break faith?"

"No," replied Tristan simply, "but I take nothing for granted."

O-o-O-o-O

Centurion Quentas Longinus had been a soldier for most of his life. Having been conscripted into the Legion at the age of 13, Quentas had quickly made the mental adjustment to his situation. Not only had he accepted it as his lot in life, but he had embraced it and determined to make the most of the experience. How bad could it be, the thirteen year old had reasoned, to have three meals a day and a warm blanket in which to wrap up at night? The Roman Legion might be many things, but ill equipped it was not!

Quentas had spent his first thirteen years on a latifundia located on the hillsides outside the great city herself. His father was the steward who ran the estate. As steward of such a large enterprise, it was his father's purview to oversee the foreman and the field hands, who were, of course, mostly slaves. Included with the field workers were the five sons of the steward, the youngest of which was Quentas. To the foreman, who had a streak of cruelty in him that ran as deep as the Tigris, the sons of the steward were no better than the slaves and often treated worse. Many a night Quentas and his brothers had crawled to their beds too exhausted to even eat and too proud to complain to their father. No, the life of a soldier was no hardship for Quentas.

He spent the first several years of service in an auxiliary army, where the sons of freemen and landholders were often sent to receive training. As part of the legendary X Legion, Quentas had earned his first battlefield commission at the infamous Scorpion Pass of Aila on the Red Sea. Fifteen years later, when he saved a Tribune - the son of an influential Senator - while serving with the Felix VII Legion in Germania, he was promoted to the rank of Centurion, the lowest of the commissioned officer ranks. He had served the Empire ever since and was damned proud of it.

Quentas had never contemplated leaving. The Legion was his life; the men he commanded his family. He was respected by all and even feared by some, for though he was a fair and just man, he was supremely disciplined and brokered no dissention within his ranks. His commands were carried out immediately and never questioned…certainly not more than once. And yet his men's allegiance was without compare. Quentas knew the name of every man who had ever served under him, from the lowliest to the highest. He always had a word of encouragement for them when they were tired or dispirited and could rally their morale sometimes with just a look. These men knew that he would walk through fire for them and they returned his loyalty to them with complete devotion.

He rose early, as usual, and emerged from his papilio while it was still dark, though the east was just beginning to be tinged with the first fingers of pink as the sun began to force the night into retreat. Old habits do indeed die hard and those childhood years spent working the land had left him an early riser, a custom that had served him well as a commander of men.

As the Romans had made their way across the Sarmation lands, conscripting the boys per the oath of their forefathers, the unit had grown. There were now 16 Romans under the command of Quentas. For a detail this size he would have two men on guard walking the perimeter of the camp with relief every two hours. Patrobas and Scaro were the two on detail the last morning rotation, and Quentas noted their locations in the dusky light, nodding to Scaro as he left the camp and headed towards the river.

The predawn air was still cold enough to transform each exhalation into misty shadows before his face as the Centurion strode through the forest of pines until he had reached the water's edge. The sweet pungent smell of the trees mixed with the strong and bitter smell of the decaying pine straw that crackled beneath his steps and the river swirled by in an unending stream as the current sang its never-ending tune. Birds were just beginning to come alive in their morning search for food and somewhere to his left he could hear other animals making their way to the water as they began their day.

A good soldier learned never to pass up the chance to be clean and winter or summer, if there was a sufficient water source available, Quentas would bathe. Not stopping to give his mind time to rebel, he pulled off his tunica, slipped the caligae off his feet and dived into the frigid water. It was as though his entire essence was being assaulted by the frosty water and not for the first time did he question the sanity of this morning practice. He pulled to the surface shaking his head like a dog wrestling a rope, definitely awake now, and laughed aloud at the feeling of life coursing through his veins as his heart pounded within his muscular chest. Quentas quickly washed using the pumice soap he'd brought and then emerged naked from the streaming water. Grabbing up the wool blanket he'd brought with which to towel himself off, he began to vigorously rub himself dry, forcing blood flow back into his frozen limbs.

After donning his tunica and strapping his caligae back on he walked briskly back to the camp. Seeing him coming, Scaro shot Patrobas an amused glance and shrugged his shoulders as if to say, "That's our commander; crazy as a loon." Neither of the young guards would have even considered a dunk in the water in this weather.

"Patrobas," called Quentas, and the younger man started as though he suspected that his commander could read his mind.

Patrobas hurried over to stand before Quentas. "Yes, Centurion! The piquet is maintained; the watch was quiet, sir!" stated the sentry, as Scaro walked up to stand beside him for the morning report.

"Very well," nodded Quentas, before grinning at the younger men. "You and Scaro get something hot to eat. We strike camp at first full light. I smell the sea and I want to see her before I sleep this night."

"Yes, Centurion!" responded the sentries, slapping their right fists over their hearts and dipping their heads in salute, for both were cold and hungry and the day's journey would be a long one.

Quentas returned to his papilio to dress for the day and break down his gear, for in a unit this small every man was responsible for his own equipment. Giving the site a quick visual, he was gratified to see the camp coming alive, as it usually was by the time he returned from his morning cleaning ritual.

As he lifted the flap to enter his papilio he became aware of the quietness of the forest around them and the hair literally stood up on the back of his neck. Quentas had not been a soldier for most of his life for nothing, and every instinct in his body was telling him that danger was near. Moving slowly, as though he were still unaware, he reached into his tent to seize his gladius. Once it was in hand he turned and sprinted towards the center of the encampment.

Tristan was just emerging from his papilio and saw Quentas turning with his sword. "Nell, wake up, quickly!" he cried as the Roman raced by.

"Romanus," bellowed Quentas, "Ad aciem! Celriter!"

A second later the barbarians attacked.

TBC

Translations:

_Papilio_ – Tent

_Gladius_ – Short Sword

_Tunica _- Short sleeved tunic worn under armor. Basic dress of the soldier

_Caligae_ – Military Sandles (Named, incidentally, after the man who would later be the Emperor Caligula.)

_Romanus _– Romans

_Ad Aciem_ – Form Battle Lines

_Celriter_ - Quickly

A million kudos and much appreication goesto DJSparkles for her tireless work as a beta, as a friend, and as a soundingboard. You're the best, my friend!

A/N My thanks to those of you who are reading the story, and especially to those who are kind enough to review. I hope that I have not "lost" you with this chapter's emphasis on Quentas and military equipment/procedure. I assure you there is method to my madness. If it helps, I picture Russell Crowe's "Maximus" as Quentas. This is the type character I see him being.


	6. Chapter Five

Tristan's Story

Chapter Five

_The leader who exercises power with honor will work from the inside out, starting with himself." Blaine Lee_

"Pugna!" Quentas called, as his troop quickly formed the battle lines of the classic combat square from which their commander could direct the wings, whether they would swing out or collapse in to form the diamond. Scutums and gladias at ready, the cumulative experience of centuries of battle efficiency shown in their disciplined order and apparent lack of fear. "Sarmatians to the center," he directed the boys, who were beginning to emerge from their tents as the roar of the attacking Germanians echoed through the camp shattering what had been a calm morning.

"Come on, Ty," urged Tristan as he strained to get the larger boy out of the tent and over to the line of Romans. Somewhat ungainly in the best of times, he was downright clumsy when startled or afraid. Tristan was all but hauling Nell as they struggled to reach the forming Romans. Lionel tripped over a guy wire from one of the papilos and went down hard. As he struggled to rise, an attacker ran at the two boys. Tristan grabbed a pilum from a nearby stack. He pushed Lionel down and swept the javelin back to kill the barbarian moving to decapitate the slower boy, grunting as the weight of the dying man's body pulled the weapon from his grasp.

Seeing the horde descending on the fleeing boys, Quentas turned to his flank. "Defendi senestram!" he called as he raced over to grab Lionel by the arm and pull him to his feet. "Tristan, get the others to the center of the formation."

Nodding his understanding, Tristan turned and raced towards where the tents of the other boys were located. He did a quick visual and realized that most of them had made it to behind the Roman lines. Quentas had Nell, but Lancelot, Gareth and Lamorak he could not see. Running in that direction, Tristan had to dodge another Germanian intent upon killing him. His smaller size allowed him to dart past the lumbering attacker, who died with a Roman pilum through his neck, compliments of Patrobas.

Quentas assessed the situation and, realizing that the attacking force would not be sufficient to overrun his position, began calling his battle strategy orders. There were approximately 50 attackers charging the 17 Romans. It would be a fight, but one which the well trained and battled hardened Romans would win. What concerned him at the moment was protecting the young ones who were in his charge. They were unskilled in battle and that made them a distraction to his fighting force. He wanted them in the center of the battle square so that his attention could be fully on the attack at hand.

Quentas turned to his optio, his second in command, "Rufus, help Tristan. If the other three are beyond our aid, get him back to the square."

"Yes, Centurion," replied the large Carthaginian, who had been in the Legion almost as long as Quentas.

O-o-O-o-O

As soon as the attack began Lancelot made the decision to lead his fellow tribesmen out the back of the papilio and into the dense woods. He felt that they would be safer there than standing in the middle of an open area, even it was the center of the Roman's battle square. "Follow me," he whispered to the pair, lifting up the back of the tent. The trio ran to the woods and hid in some undergrowth. As soon as Lancelot was certain that they had not been seen by any of the attackers he led them further into the forest.

"Lancelot," panted Gareth, out of breath as much from the sprint as from the terror of being awakened by blood curling screams.

Lancelot scanned the immediate area, only stopping once he was sure they were still not being followed. "What is it?"

"The Centurion…I heard him tell us to get behind the Roman lines. Maybe we should go back."

"Go back?" snapped Lancelot. "Have you lost your wits?"

"But we're all alone; we have no weapons," argued Lamorak.

"Listen to me, both of you," hissed Lancelot, "those Germanians don't care about us. It's the Romans they hate. The Romans are stealing their land just like they stole ours. We're safer here."

"What if we…what if they…," Gareth stammered to a stop at the look of fury on Lancelot's face.

"Forget them," he whispered fiercely. "We take care of ourselves, first and foremost. I promised your parents that I'd look after you, and that's what I intend to do."

O-o-O-o-O

Tristan reached the papilio of the missing boys in just a few steps. He ripped back the flap so that he could look inside. He expelled the breath he'd been unaware he was holding when he found it empty. He'd half expected to find three dead bodies hacked to pieces by the attacking horde. But if they weren't here, where were they? So deep was his concentration that he failed to hear the Germanian approaching him from behind. It was only when he smelled the stench of the man and heard the intake of breath as he raised his heavy sword to strike the boy's back that he realized his mistake. Tristan spun to face the threat and his eyes grew wide as he stared into the face of his doom.

Before the killing stoke could fall a mighty roar erupted from Tristan's left as Rufus charged into the fray. He jumped between Tristan and the barbarian, pushing the boy out of the way in the process. With his scutum he blocked the bloody ax stroke and shoved the man back with a powerful shove. As the barbarian fought to regain his balance, he found his ax wielding arm lying at his feet, cloven from his body by the stroke of Rufus' gladius. Before the man even had time to scream out his agony, his life was ended by a swift, sure thrust to his heart.

Tristan was frozen at Rufus' feet, staring wide-eyed at the disembodied arm lying by his side.

"Up, boy," shouted Rufus, "now!"

The shout broke Tristan from his reverie, and he jumped up and ran towards the Roman lines. "Lancelot and the others," he panted to Quentas as he ran by, "they're not in the tent, I mean the papilio;I couldn't find them."

"Incoming arrows!" shouted Quentas, as he spied arrows coming in towards the group. "Defendi altus! Defendi altus!" He stepped back to shield Tristan behind his own scutum as the other legionaries did the same for the rest of the boys. "Stay down, Tristan. Archers return fire!"

Automatically, every other man fell back a step to assume the archers position. They loosed their arrows as the remaining formation closed ranks to maintain the defensive position of the group. After three volleys were fired, Quentas motioned for four of the Romans to remain defending the Sarmatian boys. To the rest he called, "Ad cuneum, Impetus!" The Romans formed the wedge with seamless precision and marched towards the remaining attackers.

Above the melee Tristan could hear the voice of Quentas exhorting his men. "Meus caparum Romanus – Ad Victoria!"

Once he Romans went on full attack it was over quickly. Tristan was almost dazed from the intensity of the attack. He thought he understood what a battle would be like, but he was totally unprepared for the chaos, the noise, the blood, and the absolute horror of what he had seen. How in the name of all he held dear was he ever to become a warrior? He was ashamed of his own fear and vowed to learn all he could from Quentas, for the Centurion has become the boy's hero this day.

Tristan and the other boys watched as the Romans systematically stacked the dead attackers in a pile for burning. There were four Romans with injuries, one of which would require that they build a litter to be pulled behind the injured man's horse, for Quentas did not wish to remain in this location. He had no intelligence on the number of enemy in this area and would not trust that there would be no further attacks. He would report this battle to the first Legion the encountered so that the nest of resistance could be cleared.

Tristan felt a hand on his shoulder and looked to see a wide-eyed Nell standing beside him. "Thanks, Ty. Thanks for saving my life back there."

"What do you think happened to Lancelot, Gareth, and Lamorak?" stammered a white-faced Percival. It was obvious that he was terrified not only from the battle but for his missing tribe members.

"Tristan, did you see any sign of them?" questioned Gawain, standing protectively near Galahad, who seemed to be quite shaken. "Could the Germanians have grabbed them?"

"I don't know. The tent was empty. Before I could look further I was attacked."

"Did you see Rufus?" blurted Degore, a huge smile splitting his face. "He fought like a mad man when he saved you, Tristan." He picked up a fallen sward and began swinging it in a huge motion, causing the boys to back away. "Whack, whack," cried the frenzied boy as he waved the gladius in a maniacal fashion.

Patrobas, who as one of the Romans assigned to guard the boys came up behind Degore and knocked the gladius from his grasp, kicking it away before the boy could grab it again. "It's not a game, boy," growled the normally good natured Roman. "I've friends that have been wounded."

Confronted by the angry Patrobas, Degore dropped to his knees, curled into a ball and began to cry.

Surprised by the wide swing of emotions coming from Degore the other boys looked on in concern.

"What's wrong with him?" quavered Galahad, as Dagonet kneeled down beside the boy and attempted to soothe him.

"He's in shock," answered Quentas walking up to the group of confused Sarmatians. "It happens, sometimes, after a lad's first battle. And don't think it makes him weak. I've seen grown men react the same way." He pointed his bloody gladius at Bors. "Boris, find a blanket; he needs to be kept warm. Pelleas, find some of that warm gruel and see if you can get him to eat."

"Yes, sir," the redhead gulped, as he ran towards the cook area where they would have had the meal read before the attack. The boy located the pot of gruel still simmering over the coals. A discarded bowl of half eat food lay nearby and he thought use it to take to Degore, but when he reached for it, he saw that is had blood floating on top. It took a second for the shock to register and for the boy's stomach to begin lurching. He returned to the group a few minutes later with a fresh bowl of gruel and his freckled face as pasty as the contents of the bowl.

Quentas could easily see that Pelleas was near to being sick again and took pity on the boy. "Patrobas, you, Sejanus and Valeria secure the perimeter, check the hitch lines and round up any horses that broke loose. Take Pelleas with you."

Patrobas shot a sympathetic glance towards the boy and admired his commander all the more. "Yes, Centurion. Come on, boy, let's see to our mounts. They're likely to be skittish, and you're good with them."

"I am," blushed the boy, pleased to be recognized by the Romans, but still terribly queasy.

"Come on," chuckled Patrobas, glad to see the flush had at least added some color to the boy's face. "Sejanus, Valeria, to me!"

Pelleas followed Patrobas like a worshipful puppy, his chest swelling with pride as the pair was joined by the two other Romans.

"Centurion," called a legionnaire named Justus from across the camp. "I think we've found the missing Sarmatians. Seems they flew the coop.

Quentas looked to where the archer was pointing and saw Lancelot leading Lamorak and Gareth into camp as bold as you please.

"What's the matter, boy," Justus taunted, "taking a little morning exercise? First time I ever saw a Sarmatian run from a battle."

Lancelot glared at the Roman and didn't reply. The taunt and implication of cowardice stung him more than he would admit.

Quentas stood waiting with the Sarmatians. Dagonet still knelt by Degore, attempting to get the boy to eat. The Centurion could easily read the looks on the faces of the boys. Lancelot looked defiant, while the other two looked nervous and a bit guilty. While he watched their approach, he weighed how best to handle the situation. He could see by the reaction of the three that they had heard his order and chosen not to obey. He was disappointed in Lancelot, for the boy had real leadership quality, but disobeying an order could not and would not be tolerated.

As the three boys stopped in front of Quentas, Lancelot squared his shoulders and stepped in front of the other two. "It was my decision to go into the forest for protection. They followed me; I take responsibility for our actions."

Quentas was aware of the sudden silence of all the Sarmatian boys as they observed the scene unfolding before them. The Roman was conscious of the fact that this could well be a pivotal moment in their training. He fixed Lancelot with a deadly stare. "Good, then you shall watch them take your punishment."

TBC

Translations:

Gladius: Short Sword

Scutum: Shield

Pugna: Battle!

Pilum: Javelin

Defendi senestram: Defend left

Defendi altus: Defend high

Ad cuneum: Form the Wedge

Impetus: Attack

Meus caparum Romanus-Ad Victoria: - My Roman troops – To victory!


	7. Chapter Six, The Price of Leadership

**Tristan's Story**

**Chapter Six**

**The Price of Leadership**

_Leadership is not a right--it is a responsibility.--John Maxwell_

Lamorak swallowed nosily and Gareth actually whimpered, but Lancelot was frozen where he stood, his wide disbelieving eyes staring into the calm, but determined eyes of Quentas.

"But I…"

"Lancelot," interrupted Quentas, stepping forward to glower down at the boy, "speak again and I shall double their penalty. Now is not the time for words."

He turned his back on the three to address the rest of the Sarmatians. "Dagonet, help Degore. I put him in your charge. The rest of you break down your equipment and make ready. We leave this place within the hour."

As the boys rushed to dismantle their papilios and prepare for departure, the Centurion turned back to Lancelot, Gareth, and Lamorak. He felt his heart soften a bit as he spied the tears on Gareth's cheeks, but forced himself to remain in his command mind set. What he was teaching them was necessary…could save their lives. The military depended upon discipline to be efficient, and the Roman's had perfected disciplinary measures to a fine art…precisely why their Legions were the best in the world.

His ire ratcheted back up a notch when his glance fell onto Lancelot's unrepentant face, and the commander forced himself to take a deep breath. Quentas reminded himself that Lancelot was, after all, just a boy, still learning and apt to make the mistakes that boys make. The trouble was that those mistakes could get him killed, and not only him but the other boys with him since they looked to him for their lead. It was Quentas' job to train them and make them effective, and sometimes the best way to do that was to break them down completely before beginning to build them up again.

"Justus," called the Roman.

"Yes, Centurion."

"Take these two into custody," he motioned to Lamorak and Gareth. "No one is to speak to them."

"Yes, Centurion!" Justice nodded to the two terrified boys. "Come on, you two, follow me."

With a frightened glance at Lancelot, their spirits sagging, Lamorak and Gareth followed Justus. From their shuffling walk and stooped shoulders it was clear the pair imagined they were going to their doom.

Lancelot stood staring at them as they walked away, still too shocked and frightened for his friends to make a coherent thought re-enter his head. He turned guilty and accusing eyes to Quentas, silently begging him to shift the punishment onto his shoulders.

Quentas carefully maintained his bearing as he held Lancelot's gaze until everyone had gone about their business and the two were alone. "My commander in the Felix Legion once told me that what we do in this life echoes in eternity. That is a true statement, but I tell you also, Lancelot, that what we do and what we choose in this life affects not only ourselves but also those who have placed their trust in us."

"But they're innocent," challenged Lancelot, his eyes reflecting the torment in his soul.

"No, they are not," admonished Quentas calmly. "They followed your lead, but they also chose to disobey my order. They shall pay the price for your disobedience as well as their own."

Anger flared across Lancelot's so easily read face. "I ask no one to take my punishment."

"Who said you weren't being punished?" queried Quentas, searching the youthful face and satisfied to find no guile.

More confused and frustrated then ever, Lancelot could not hold back the tears that scalded his eyes. Shamed by the weakness he fought desperately to contain his emotions.

Quentas took a deep breath and released it slowly, forcing himself to release the remaining tension from the morning's violence. "Walk with me, Lancelot," He ordered, as he led the boy slightly away from where the others were dismantling camp and preparing for departure, sparing the lad the humiliation of having his emotions seen by anyone else. Quentas stopped when they were far enough away so that their conversation would remain private but close enough to summon aid should there be any attackers left in the area. "Why did you disobey?"

Lancelot seemed to consider the question a moment. Quentas watched play of emotions wash across the boy's face. Finally he lowered his head and spoke. "I promised their parents I would protect them and get them home."

"I am pleased with your honesty," responded Quentas, "but consider this; for the sake of your fellow tribe members you compromised the security of the entire camp."

The boy seemed genuinely confused by the Roman's words.

"Lancelot, I do not doubt that you believe you were taking a wise course of action for yourself and for your friends, but you acted rashly. In choosing to disobey my orders, you placed yourself in danger, and more importantly, you undermined the discipline of your unit. When you did not appear, I sent Tristan to find you. He was almost killed searching your papilio."

Lancelot paled at that bit of information and swallowed noisily. "Is, is he alright?" stammered the boy.

"He is," answered Quentas, "but I was forced to send Rufus to his aid, thus weakening the defensive posture of the entire group, including all of the Sarmatians. We were sorely outnumbered, Lancelot, and every man was required to maintain position for the maximum amount of defensive capability." He paused gauging the expression on the boy's face before continuing. "My worry for you threatened to distract my mind at a time when I needed clarity to assess the situation and issue the correct orders. My men's, and your friend's, lives all depended upon me making accurate decisions as rapidly as possible."

Lancelot had difficulty meeting Quentas eyes. "I would not have knowingly placed Lamorak or Gareth in danger, nor would I have wished danger upon anyone else. I acted without thinking."

Quentas let only the ghost of a smile grace his handsome face. "Yes, you did, and I am pleased that you recognize that fact and admit it. You may not realize it, Lancelot, but that is a big step towards assuming responsibility."

"I am not sure that I want that responsibility," admitted the apprehensive boy.

"Do not fear it, Lancelot; it is a gift…one that may be used to save the lives of your fellow knights."

Lancelot forced back his tears and met Quentas' reassuring gaze. "Must my friends be punished for my decision?"

The vulnerability in the boy's face touched him and brought home to him, in a powerful way, the responsibility he had to teach these young ones well. He remembered vividly the cold fear that gripped him when he first realized that his actions could bring death to those under his command. "As I told you, they are being punished for their decision, but had _you_ resolved to obey my command then they would have also. Your punishment will be to see them suffer the consequences for your choice, for that is what a leader does. At some time in the future you will taste the bitterness of seeing a man die because of your orders, that is the way of life for us. We are soldiers." He smiled and put his hand on Lancelot's shoulder. "Well, I am a soldier, you will be." Quentas grew serious again, looking deeply into the vulnerable, young eyes. "Lancelot, learn these lessons well and we may yet delay that harsh day for a long time."

Lancelot blinked hard and fought down the lump in his throat. "May I not share their fate?"

Quentas shook his head. "Trust me to judge wisely. Your friends will learn from this example, as will you. I act in your best interests. The lessons you learn now may well save your lives later. That is my charge, to see you live to return to your homeland when your service is complete.

Lancelot accepted this pronouncement. He was deeply ashamed to have brought retribution upon his friends, and sobered to know that his actions had nearly cost Tristan his life.

"Go back to camp, Lancelot. Prepare your equipment for departure."

Lancelot nodded his head and turned to go, but caught himself and turned back to face Quentas. "Yes, Centurion," he said sincerely.

Quentas was pleased, for he knew what that gesture had cost the proud young man. "Lancelot, ask Rufus to join me here.'

"Yes, Centurion."

The Roman watched the boy walking back to camp. He was proud of Lancelot for facing up to his error. His admission had solidified a decision Quentas had been mulling over for several days. It was time to split up the tribes. He wanted the boys to begin thinking and acting like a unit and this would not happen so long as they continued to think as individual tribes. A noise in the woods interrupted his thoughts and the wily Roman focused his attention outwards, straining to hear anything amiss. When he was unable to find anything wrong he chastised himself for looking for "monsters under the bed" as his mother had always put it. The only trouble was that the "monsters" he faced these days would gladly take off his head.

"You asked for me?"

Quentas spun to find Optio smiling broadly at him, clearly amused to have caught his superior off guard.

"Rufus!" Quentas took a breath, attempting to still his racing heart. "Gah, if you want command, just do me in with a dagger, would you? I swear, if you don't stop sneaking up on me you're going to make my heart jump out my chest one of these days."

Rufus laughed and clapped his friend on the shoulder. They had served together for many years and were fast friends in private. Among the men, of course, they maintained a strict chain of command. It could be no other way. "You're getting soft, my friend. I could never catch you unawares before. What is on your mind?"

"The Sarmatians," he answered simply. "I want you to change up their assigned papilio mates. Break up the tribes. I want every boy sleeping with new companions tonight."

"You think that the reason for the morning's disobedience?"

"Partially, though we both know that whether he realizes it or not Lancelot was also testing me."

Rufus laughed. "Well, I think he has his answer now. When he came to find me his face was white as bluffs of that wretched island where we're taking him."

"Was it?" chuckled Quentas. "Well he is learning a hard lesson today, one that I hope will stand him in good stead."

"What is your planned penalty?" asked the curious second in command.

Quentas frowned and looked at his feet as he considered the question. "I haven't decided," he finally admitted.

Rufus contemplated his friend's words, gauging his body language. "You don't know what to do? I have never seen you this hesitant to mete out judgment before. What is in your head, Quentas?"

Quentas sighed and turned to face his Optio, finally shaking his head ruefully. "I'm getting too old for this, Rufus. I have allowed myself to become attached to these boys."

At the astonished look on Rufus's face, Quentas sighed and raised both hands to ward off any reply from his friend. "I know, don't say it. I am getting soft."

"That is not what I was going to say," objected Rufus with a wry grimace. "I was, in fact, going to admit to somewhat the same feelings."

Now it was Quentas' turn to be surprised.

"When the Phoenicians founded Carthage, we dominated the Mediterranean with our war ships. Hannibal, our greatest General, conquered many lands. He marched across the Alps in 14 days and fought the Romans for 15 years before being defeated by Scipio Africanus at Zama. He killed himself to avoid being captured. When the Romans razed Carthage, they burnt it to the ground and then covered the remains with salt to ensure its barrenness. My people all but ceased to exist." He paused looking sadly at Quentas.

Quentas was puzzled at the emotional depth of Rufus's declaration. "That was long ago, my friend. Hannibal and Scipio's bones have long since turned to dust. What have they to do with us?"

Rufus nodded his head in affirmation of Quentas' words. "I have made my life in the Legion, as you have, but I see something of myself in these boys. They are struggling to come to grips with their new lives while holding onto something of their old. It is not an easy path."

Quentas was intrigued and humbled. "You have never spoken thus to me, my friend."

Rufus ducked his head, a bit embarrassed to have bared his soul so completely, but confident in the friendship of Quentas. "I call myself a Carthaginian, but the Carthage of my people has not existed for hundreds of years. It's a Roman world, my friend. To live in it we have all had to become a part of it, which brings us back to Lamorak and Garath."

"I will think on it as we travel today. It must be sufficiently harsh to make my point without breaking their spirits."

Rufus nodded. "I am glad that responsibility is yours and not mine."

_TBC_

A/N: My sincere thanks and appreciation to Vintersorg and OP, my two faithful reviewers. I hope you continue to enjoy this tale as much as I enjoy its writing. For Dejee, I continue to treasure your support and friendship.


	8. Chapter 7, Crime and Punishment

**Tristan's Story**

**Chapter Seven**

**Crime and Punishment**

_"Effective leadership is putting first things first. Effective management is discipline, carrying it out." – Stephen Covey_

The Romans broke camp within the hour, as efficient as always. The backbone of the Empire, the Legions of Rome moved with the same meticulous precision with which they did everything else. They marched across a world wide Empire on Roman built roads, crossed rivers spanned by arched bridges of Roman design, and they spoke Latin, which would later prove to be the backbone of many languages. Roman law, architecture, and literature were the glory of the human race during these men's lifetime, yet their world was also dying, decayed by the greed of man and the weakness of those who seek power for power's sake.

But these thoughts were far from the consciousness of Quentas Longinus as he rode through the thick forest. Dappled shadows marked their path as the sunlight filtered through the pines, and the sounds of the horse's hooves were muffled by the thick carpet of autumn leaves and dead pine straw covering the road. His mind was on his mission and the boys in his charge, two of them in particular. Quentas became aware of the fact that Rufus was continuing to stare at him as the pair rode side by side. Content in the knowledge that his command was secure with scouts ahead and behind the troop, he shelved his contemplation of the discipline to use upon Gareth and Lamorak, and turned an amused look to the optio riding by his side. "Have I grown another head, Rufus, or is it my uniquely attractive Roman profile that has so garnered your attention?"

Rufus arched an eyebrow. "One thing a Roman will never be accused of is modesty."

"When one has conquered the known world, one must also work at being pompous. It's expected."

"Ah, but you forget, my oh-so-pompous acting friend, that I know you," laughed the Optio. "You're no more arrogant than this recalcitrant mount upon which I ride until my backside aches."

Quentas rode silently for a moment before turning a wry glance towards Rufus. "You did not answer my question. Why are you staring at me? I begin to understand how a filly must feel in a stable full of stallions."

"Do not flatter yourself," snorted Rufus. "I am not yet so desperate as to turn desire in your direction. I was simply attempting to ascertain whether or not you had come to a decision."

Quentas frowned slightly and graced Rufus with puzzled regard. "I told you I would think on it today. Why are you so curious?"

Rufus held his commander's gaze for several moments, the seriousness of his concern reflected on his grizzled face. "Have you not noticed?"

At the genuinely confused look which flashed across his friend's face, Rufus laughed softly. "You truly have been deep in thought." A series of sharp caws interrupted the wily Carthaginian, and he stopped to follow the flight of a pair of crows battling in the skies overhead. Tearing his eyes away from the raucous scene, he looked back at his commander.

"What is it I'm supposed to have noticed? The scouts are out, the road and surrounding area appears secure, the troop is behind me…ah the troop." He paused and looked back at the men and boys following along in his wake. "Yes, they are all there."

Rufus grimaced. "For a commander, you can certainly be thick headed," he hissed quietly, making absolutely certain that his disrespectful reply could not be overheard and thus misinterpreted by the men. "They've been talking quietly all morning about the discipline of the boys, and sharing tales about what they've experienced in the legion."

Finally Quentas realized where his outspoken option was leading him. He nodded his head slowly as he nonchalantly looked back at the men following behind by several feet. "Has Lucius spoken yet?" The softly spoken question belied the sudden tension that Quentas felt in the pit of his stomach.

"No, but I think it won't be long. Look at his face."

Quentas turned once more as though making a cursory exam of the surrounding area, something he was known by his men to do every few minutes for security's sake. He let his eyes rest for only a second on young Lucius, the newest member of the troop, and the son of a fisherman from the port city of Neapolis. Seeking a life away from nets, boats and the smell of fish, he had chosen the Legions rather than Rome's navy for service, though that was not what had caused him to be the object of his commander's attention now. No, it was the circumstances of his transfer to Quentas' command that made him unknowingly the focus of the two men leading the group, for Lucius had come from a Light Infantry Unit which had been disbanded…a rarity except for the most extreme circumstances. Quentas could see that the young man's face was troubled and accurately guessed that he would soon begin to talk about his experience, something he had not previously done.

Turning back to the front, Quentas settled himself more comfortably in his saddle and shot a quick glance at Rufus, signaling his thanks to the optio for pulling his mind to the immediate. This was one conversation he definitely wanted to hear, for he felt that Lucius would be more inclined to speak freely to the men. The commander was also most interested in how his men reacted to what they would hear. He allowed his body to appear totally relaxed as he focused his senses to the rear.

"What about you, Lucius," questioned Patrobas. "You're new here. What unit was it you were with before?"

"A Light Cavalry Unit," replied the curly haired young man evasively.

Both Quentas and Rufus noted that Lucius failed to name the unit and shared a quick glance. Rufus observed the calculating look on his friend's face as they listened to the hushed conversation taking place behind them.

In his early twenties, Lucius had the dark hair of his ancestry, which he kept close cropped in the Roman fashion, but even worn short it was readily apparent that his hair had a mind of its own. He was deeply tanned with long lashes bordering aqua blue eyes the color of the sea his father loved so much. A smattering of freckles graced the bridge of his nose, giving him the appearance of one much younger than his years.

"So," urged Patrobas, "what kind of discipline was your commander inclined to use?"

"Mostly the same as what I've heard this morning, except once," he stammered to a close as he let the words hang in the air. He shivered visibly as his thoughts returned to the day he'd experienced a scene of abject horror that he hoped he'd never again see…a scene he certainly never expected to take place in his very own unit.

Of course, his reaction was immediately noticed by the men riding beside him and of course, their curiosity was immediately peeked. Patrobas shared a quick look with his best friend Scaro, who offered his customary shrug in reply.

Riding behind the troop, the Sarmatian boys had also quieted at the softly spoken words and intense body language of the young Roman. Tristan's mount, Paska, whinnied and danced sideways in agitation at the nervous tension racing through the unit. Pulling his horse back into line, Tristan glanced quickly at Lionel, riding beside him and then at the rest of the boys. Gareth and Lamorak were pale and wide-eyed, obviously listening with great interest for what Lucian was about to describe. Lancelot looked absolutely miserable, and Tristan wished there was something he could do to lighten the self-imposed wall of resolute misery he had erected around himself. Galahad was riding beside Gawain as usual, and Tristan noticed how he kept looking at his older friend as though to make sure he was still there. The rest followed in their usual pairs: Boris and Dagonet, Degore and Alynore, Brumear and Pelleas, Percival and Bedevere. Only Lancelot rode alone, bringing up the rear in dejected silence.

"Come on, Lucius, don't keep us waiting. What happened?" probed Sejanus, voicing what everyone else wanted to say.

Lucius' freckles stood out bolding against the sudden pastiness of his face as he raised haunted eyes. "Decimation."

"By the gods," swore Valeria, "I didn't think that was still done."

The Romans all grew quiet, so quiet that the soft sound of their horse's hooves and the more distant caws of the still battling crows were the only sounds.

"So what is it?" blurted Lamorak, unable to remain quiet and quite frankly scared to death by the apparent shock of the Romans. If this decimation rendered these battle hardened men so mute then what must this terror be, and more importantly, was it something which he and Gareth might face this night. The poor lad felt near to wetting his own pants as he waited.

"Shut up, boy," growled Justus, "it's Roman business."

"They're going to be serving Rome," argued Patrobas, "they might as well learn here and now what can happen when the discipline of a unit is breeched."

Bringing up the rear of the group, Lancelot blanched at those words remembering how Quentas told him he had undermined the discipline of his unit.

"Wh, wh, what is decimation?" stuttered Gareth, almost afraid to know.

Tristan smiled inwardly, realizing that the boy always stuttered when he was nervous. Tristan was leaning the little quirks and traits that made them each individuals.

"It's something I hope none of you ever has to see," sighed Lucius, his normally soft voice strained and hoarse sounding. "It happened to my last unit when a few of the men balked at an order and showed cowardice before a Tribune. Every tenth man of our cohort was chosen by draw of lots. Those of us left were ordered to club them to death. Forty eight good men died that day. My closest friend was one of them."

A deathly quiet fell once again over the troop, blanketing the men with dread as they each envisioned such an act within their own unit.

Ahead of the men, Quentas closed his eyes and sighed softly. He knew, of course, what had happened. Though rare, decimation was and had been used by the Roman Legions. Its effect was almost overwhelmingly positive or completely destructive, necessitating the disbandment of the unit. Such had been the case with the Light Cavalry Unit to which Lucius had been assigned. The desired change had not happened. Instead the morale of the unit had been devastated.

Quentas truly wished this subject had not come up today, with the looming question of discipline for Gareth and Lamorak, but he supposed it was inevitable. Now, more than ever, the eyes of every man and every boy would be on his decision, weighing it for merit. He sighed again. 'Well,' he told himself, 'it was out in the open; he'd just have to deal with it.' It would be a long, tense afternoon.

O-o-O-o-O

Tristan sat with the glum group of Sarmatians huddled around one of several small fire in the camp. The Romans routinely set several smaller fire rather than one or two larger ones to mask the size of their troop, which at present consisted of just two contuberniums, plus the officers, standard bearer, and the fifteen Sarmatians. They had finally reached the coastal city of Port Ilius – though they remained camped outside the city - nearly exhausted after the excitement of the morning's battle and the subsequent hard ride of the day. The knowledge that two of their own were about to face judgment did not set well with them.

Since they had arrived after dark and hunting was out of the question, the group settled down to the hardtack maintained for the journey, though none of the boys ate much. Pragmatic as always, Tristan forced himself to eat. If he were to save himself and Lionel from any threat, he knew that he had to eat when he had the chance, drink water and refill his skin when the opportunity presented itself, and keep in maximum fighting order. His father had taught him these lessons.

Having sensed that the time was ripe, Quentas motioned for Rufus to follow him. The pair walked a short ways away from the camp, mindful of where the sentries would be posted.

"So you've finally decided?" questioned Rufus.

"Actually, I knew from the very beginning," admitted Quentas. "I was just waiting to see whether or not an alternative presented itself. Make up a salve containing comfrey and rosehips. You still have a supply of both, don't you?"

"Yes," confirmed Rufus, "I do." The large soldier was also the troop's apothecary, a talent he inherited from his father.

"Good," nodded Quentas, once again grateful for the skills of his optio. He knew how rare it was for a troop this size to be so equipped. "Also make tea, and add a bit of poppy to it for afterwards." I don't want the boys to suffer any more than necessary." He ran agitated fingers through his hair trying to think of all that would be required.

Rufus was careful to keep the smile from his face. 'You're an old softie,' he thought to himself.

"See to the preparations, Rufus, and then prepare the gauntlet."

"Weapons?" questioned the optio noncommittally.

"No, balteus will be sufficient." Quentas took a deep breath and held it for a moment while he looked up at the night sky. He truly hated what his rank required him to do sometimes. Sighing he turned to his friend. "We're ahead of schedule. They will have time to heal before we undertake the voyage." With that he turned and walked off into the night, needing some time alone to prepare himself mentally for what was to come. He knew that Rufus would see to all the preparations.

TBC

Translations

Balteus: A thick, leather belt used by the Romans.

Contubernium – troop consisting of eight men

A/N: The next chapter is entitled, "The Gauntlet." As you can probably tell, I'm very interested in history, and that love will continue to be featured in this tale. It never hurts to learn something while we're being entertained, right? If you have particular aspects of the Knights that you would like to see addressed in the story, please let me know and I'll see what I can do!

**Katy** and **Hkokuryuha**: Welcome aboard! It's always great to see a new name and know that others are enjoying the story. **OP**: Glad to see you're still with me and still enjoying Quentas. I love the Romans and hope to show that there are always two sides to every story. Just as Tristan and the boys did not make the original contract with the Romans, neither did Quentas or his men. They are all just playing out a move put into place long before them. **Vintersorg**: I'm glad to see that you like Quentas too. It's always good to find another history buff and to see that the little touches I add in are appreciated. **MissBubbles**: Welcome back! I have missed your reviews. I'm glad you like how Lancelot is being developed. Over the course of this story, I hope to show how all of their personalities were developed and changed by the events taking place around them.

Last, but certainly not least. as always, my most special thanks goes to **DJSparkles,** who graciously does all my beta work and who is always a great sounding board. If you enjoy this story, know that she encourages me when my creativity is bone dry and lights a fire under me when I'm just plain lazy! She is also a great writer, so check out some of her stories!


	9. Chapter Eight, The Gauntlet

**Tristan's Story**

**Chapter Eight**

**The Gauntlet**

_"The only real mistake is the one from which we learn nothing." John Powell_

As he walked back, Rufus observed the camp protected from the darkness by the warm flickering campfires while automatically ticking off the status of the encampment procedures in his well ordered mind. The picket was set. The horses had been hitched, brushed down, fed and watered and were now contentedly dozing, their tails the only thing betraying movement as they occasionally swished to dislodge biting insects.

Their dinner of hardtack and watered mead consumed, if not relished, the younger legionnaires were busying themselves with the sharpening of weapons, or the fletching of arrows, too nervous to just sit quietly. Most of the rest were just staring into the fire, a look of resignation upon their faces. These, of course, were the veterans…the ones who recognized and even appreciated the need for discipline for they had been in the army long enough to have witnessed what could happen without it.

Rufus entered his papilio to complete the preparations he'd been working on since making camp earlier. He retrieved the prescribed herbs from his neatly kept apothecary bag and began mixing the salve that would later be applied to the boy's backs. He already had water heating in an iron pot suspended over the nearest fire outside. In addition to the poppy tea he would give them, some of this water would be cooled and used to rinse and wash their wounds before they were smeared with the healing herbal salve and bandaged. His linen bandaging strips were already neatly laid out and ready. Allotted his own papilio because of his rank, Rufus had prepared it tonight to hold three. He would keep the boys with him until he was assured of their healing.

The Optio sat back on his heels thinking through the steps he'd outlined in his mind, double checking everything to ensure he'd forgotten nothing. He wanted this to go as smoothly as possible. The faster everything was done once they started, the less dread and fear the boys would experience. The punishment was bad enough; he had no desire to add to it, even though he recognized the fact that they'd brought this on themselves by disobeying the commander's order. He sighed and shook his head. This was the third group of Sarmatians he'd conscripted in his tenure, and they always did that in the beginning, though they usually waited until they were in Britain. Why did they always have to test the commander's resolve? Tonight would be a painful lesson, but a valuable lesson. He sincerely hoped it would be all the lesson they needed. The life of a soldier was punishing enough without asking for more. Finishing his inventory, he was glad he had remembered to order Lucius to take first watch with Patrobas so that the boy would be spared this spectacle so soon after his previous disciplinary experience.

Rufus rose and, pushing back the flap, exited his papilio. To his left he could see the Sarmatian boys off to themselves, like they normally were, though tonight there was no soft laughter or story telling. They sat quietly, for the most part, lending what emotional strength they could to Lamorak and Gareth.

All conversation, what little there had been, stopped as Rufus approached the boys. Fifteen pairs of eyes watched his approach, and dread was clearly written on each face. In Lancelot's case, dread and guilt were visible. Rufus made a mental note to follow up on that. The purpose of this exercise was to teach them the consequences of disobedience, not so embitter them that they were untrainable. Rufus motioned for Dagonet and Brumear to follow him, and continued on past the boys and into the treeline.

Dagonet and Brumear cast quick, confused looks at each other but promptly rose to follow the Roman. Neither one had any taste to try his patience, tonight of all nights. The remaining boys fell into a morose silence as the pair followed Rufus into the night.

"Why don't they just get it over with?" blurted Lamorak. "I can't stand much more of this waiting."

"I'm sorry," whispered Lancelot. "This is all my fault."

The boys were surprised to hear him speak, for Lancelot had refused to talk the entire day. Most of them wanted to say something to ease his guilt and the other pair's fear, but just did not know how or what to say.

"N, No, Lancelot," stuttered Gareth, "that's not true. We chose to follow you. D, Do not blame yourself."

"Why isn't the commander punishing Lancelot?" gagged Pelleas, trying futilely to calm his heaving stomach. "Sorry," he finished up, "nerves always go straight to my stomach."

"Ha," barked Bors, "remind me not to fight beside Pelleas."

Nervous laughter met the "gallows humor" briefly breaking the tension as they each settled back to their own thoughts.

Tristan sat off to the side where he could keep watch over Lionel as well as Lancelot. He had, in fact, given much thought as to why Lancelot was not being punished, seeking to remember every lesson his father had ever taught him about the Romans and their ways. Since the night Lancelot had come to him by the river's side, he had felt a bond with the boy, and Tristan sympathized with the torment Lance was suffering. Tristan thought he knew some of what Lancelot was feeling, for Tristan has pledged to protect Lionel and would bear any hardship or burden for him. The very idea that Lionel could be punished for something Tristan had done was onerous to him. His eyes drifted to the forest where Dagonet and Brumear had followed Rufus and he wondered where Quentas was and what he was thinking.

Stopping a number of yards from camp, Rufus turned and waited for the two puzzled boys to reach him. He was somewhat amused to see them stop several feet away from him. "Come closer, boys, I don't want this shouted all over camp. You must not fear me."

Swallowing hard, Dagonet stepped up to Rufus, followed closely by Brumear.

Rufus came straight to the point, as was his wont. "Dagonet, you are the oldest of the group, and Brumear, you are the steadiest. The two of you will act as seconds for Lamorak and Gareth. Dagonet, you will take Lamorak, for he is larger then Gareth and your strength may be required to carry him."

"What does that mean, be their second?" asked Dagonet. "I do not understand your ways."

"It means this," explained Rufus. "You will remove their shirts. They will be sentenced to run through a gauntlet of the soldiers who will beat them across the back with balteus'. Tell them to do their best to act with courage, for they will earn the respect of all present if they do. Advise them to run quickly and, if they fall or falter, to rise promptly for the beating will not stop until they exit the gauntlet."

"So you're not going to kill them!" proclaimed Brumear, brightening considerably as the realization sunk in.

Rufus smiled softly. "No," he chided gently, "no matter what you have heard, the Roman Legions rarely use execution as a punishment. For their own that is," he added.

When he was satisfied there were no more questions, he continued. "You will assist me with them once they are through the gauntlet. Carry your charge to my tent. There we will wash their backs and apply a salve I have prepared. There will also be poppy tea to ease their pain." He paused and then looked thoughtfully at the two. "I do not want you to tell them that before hand," he warned. "This is to be punishment," he explained, though neither had asked. "Are you clear on what is expected of you?"

Both heads nodded.

"Very well, rejoin your group and do not speak of this. At my signal lead the boys to stand before the commander."

Again, both heads nodded. When Rufus said no more the two turned and returned to camp.

At the same time, Quentas was entering camp from the opposite side, having spent the last half hour walking alone on the shore line. "Romans, stand to!" he ordered. "Balteus, at the ready!"

At their commander's call each soldier knew what to do. They had been speculating for most of the day as to what Quentas would order and most knew and trusted him well enough to suspect which decision he would make. Like their commander, none took pleasure in what they were to do, but they understood its necessity. Every fighting man had to be able to trust the man at his back.

The Romans formed parallel lines approximately five feet across from each other. Justus eyed his commander and spoke softly to the younger soldiers. "Don't hold back on your licks, men, or it will go worse for the lads."

"What do you mean?" questioned Scaro, whispering so as not to draw any unwanted attention for the commander or his optio.

"I mean," hissed Justus, "that the commander would be duty bound to send them back through if he believes we're not using full force. Don't worry, these belts aren't going to kill em."

"Silence in the ranks," snapped Quentas, causing Justus to scowl at Scaro. "Bring the prisoners."

Rufus nodded to Dagonet and Brumear, who went to Lamorak and Gareth. Rufus watched as they led the pair to stand before Quentas. The optio shepherded the remaining Sarmatian boys over to stand behind the Romans, but in full view of the gauntlet. "Stand here and don't interfere. You are permitted to yell your support and show them that you honor their courage."

Rufus then joined Quentas and stood facing the four boys.

"Lamorak and Gareth, you are charged with disobeying an order from your superior officer. Your punishment is to face a gauntlet of the Legion. Once you complete the punishment your penalty is considered paid in full. Your second's will more fully explain what it to come next." With that he nodded to Dagonet and Brumear, who turned their charges around to face them.

Dagonet and Brumear removed the shirts from the now shivering boys. "Be strong," said Dagonet. "Do not fear what is to come. If you fall, get up and keep going. Just get to the end. We will be waiting for you there, and it will all be over."

"Show these Romans what stuff we Sarmatians are made of," added Brumear as he removed Gareth's shirt. "Just keep going no matter what happens."

To their credit Gareth and Lamorak had both conquered their fears and were ready to face their punishment. Oh, they were still afraid, for who wouldn't be, but they were also determined to see this through with as much courage as possible, if for no other reason than to make their friends proud.

"Romans, assume positions," ordered Rufus, and the Romans took position, ready to begin landing blows. Rufus nodded and the boys started down the line.

The color drained from Lancelot's face at the blows began to rain onto his friends, staggering them and bloodying their backs. Gareth fell to his knees, but Lamorak managed to grab hold of his arm, pulling him to his feet and supporting him as they continued through the continuous shower of blows. Tristan bolstered his friend by placing his hand on Lancelot's shoulder. It wasn't much, but it was all he could do.

After what seemed like an interminable length of time the two boys reached the end of the gauntlet and fell into the waiting arms of Dagonet and Brumear who started to pick them up.

"Wait," ordered Quentas. "Turn them around."

For a second everyone, even the twin line of Romans, still panting from the exertion, looked at the commander in shock. Surely he did not mean to send the back through again.

Dagonet and Brumear were frozen, still confused by the order.

"Obey," shouted Rufus, shaking both boys from their lethargy. Carfully, so as not to further injure their bleeding backs, the two boys turned Lamorak and Gareth back to face Quentas.

Though shaking from shock and pain, both boys managed to remain standing to face the commander.

"Lamorak, Gareth," began Quentas, "well done." He snapped to attention, his right fist over his heart. "Strength and honor!"

Every Roman in camp matched the salute echoing in unison, "Strength and Honor!"

Pride warred in equal measure with the pain on the faces of the young Sarmatians.

Quentas nodded to Dagonet and Brumear who quickly scooped up the wounded pair and made for Rufus' papilio.

"Romans, stand down," dismissed Quentas. He nodded to Rufus who immediately turned and made for his papilio to begin treating the injuries to Lamorak and Gareth. The rest of the Romans automatically retired towards their own area of camp and begin putting away the balteus' while talking quietly among themselves.

The Saramatians still stood rooted where they had stood, shaken by what they had seen and confused by the different emotions battling within them. Tristan's attention was pulled to Pelleas who was valiantly trying to control his heaving stomach and failing miserably. "Alynore, see to Pelleas," he ordered. "You come form his camp; he'll feel less self conscious with you."

Alynore nodded and helped the pitifully sick boy over to the edge of the camp, holding his red curls back as he emptied his stomach into the bushes.

"Take him further, you dunce," shouted Bors. "I don't want to smell that all night."

"Bors," snapped Tristan.

"What?" protested the excitable Sarmatian. "Well, do you?"

"Just keep it to yourself," sighed Tristan tiredly. He wanted to talk to Lancelot, who was walking off into the night.

Muttering to himself, Bors started back towards the area where the papilios of the Sarmatians were located, followed by the rest.

Tristan watched them leave and then turned to go to Lancelot when a hand grabbed his shoulder, halting his forward motion.

"No Tristan," sighed Quentas. "I will see to him."

TBC

Translations:

Papilio: Tent

Balteus: A thick, leather belt used by the Romans.

A/N: Decimation was a practice utilized by the Romans. Two well known examples of the use of decimation were 1) when Lucius Apronius subjected the Legios III Augusta (The Legion of Augustus) to decimation and 2) when Licinius Crassus, leading 12 Legions against the slave revolt led by Spartacus, punished two legions led by his Lieutenant, Mummius, to decimation after Mummius disobeyed an order.

Roman Commanders were given complete latitude in choosing punishments for their men. I do not know for sure whether or not the gauntlet wasused by the Romans, however it was used in ancient times and may well have been.

Forgive me for not mentioning each of you individually this time, but I spent far longer than I expected researching this chapter and time is short.I thought you would prefer to getthe chapter withoutreview reasponses rather than have me wait. Know that I value each of you and love to see your comments as we take this journey together.


	10. Chapter 9, Learning & Healing

**Tristan's Story**

**Chapter Nine**

**Learning and Healing **

"_Learning by experience often is painful-and the more it hurts, the more you learn." Ralph Banks_

Tristan watched Quentas walk into the night following Lancelot. He looked back towards Rufus' papilio where Rufus, Dag and Brumear were tending to Gareth and Lamorak. He sighed, uncertain what to do. He should probably be over at the fire reassuring Nell but truthfully, he needed some time to be alone…to think through his thoughts of this night.

Tristan opted for a visit with Paska. Besides Nell, his beloved horse was the only tie with home he had left. He walked over to the hitch line where all the horses were kept. Twice in the darkness he had to stop and identify himself – once to Lucius and once to Patrobas. Even in the short distance to the horses, security was tight. Once he reached the hitch line he went down the row of horses, familiar by now with each of them. The Romans, for the most part, rode horses from the cavalry pool maintained for the mass ranks of soldiers, the kind of horses that were steady and solid, if not very spirited. The Sarmatian horses were obviously a cut above the standard issue mounts of the Romans. Each one had a personality as distinct as its owner.

Sarmatian Knights believed that their fallen comrades came back to this world as one of the great Sarmatian war horses, and having experienced the trials and tribulations of knighthood would be able to better protect the one riding him. The highly trained horses were almost as valuable a fighting weapon as those carried by the men. A Sarmatian trained horse would fight to protect his warrior, would never leave his fallen rider, and would, in fact, protect his owner at all costs. The horse and rider formed a bond that held them steadfastly loyal to each other.

Reaching Paska, Tristan began to stroke the huge bay between the eyes, just where he liked it. "Hello, old boy," crooned Tristan. "I am in need of your wisdom tonight."

O-o-O-o-O

Quentas found Lancelot standing on the shore as near to the water as he could get without getting wet. It was obvious from the tear tracks running down his face that his torment was still not abated.

The Roman stepped up beside the boy, not speaking, but just making Lancelot aware of his presence. He would let Lancelot decide the next move. They stood side by side looking out at the vastness before them. The full moon was reflecting off the water though the stars further out were veiled by clouds. The power of the waves bore testimony of some storm too far off shore for them to even see. Oceanius Britannicus it was called by the Romans, and it washed their faces in a salty breeze, stinging their eyes occasionally by whipping up the sand.

"Centurion," the boy said softly. "What Lucius said today…about decimation…could you have done that to us?"

Quentas considered his words. "I could have, Lancelot, but I would not do that. Decimation is only used by the Legions in very rare cases. We do not normally execute our men for disobedience, though it has been done on occasion. The purpose of discipline is to train and therefore strengthen the unit."

Lancelot looked up at the Roman…his large brown eyes open windows to his vulnerable soul as he swallowed noisily.

Quentas considered the boy by his side. "Come," he motioned, "sit down here and let us talk for a moment." Quentas joined Lancelot on the cool, damp sand, aware that this could be considered a breach of military etiquette. Well, so be it. His men were otherwise occupied, so they would not observe the moment, and he felt sure that Lancelot would not abuse this instance of his lowered guard. Besides, the boy was at a crossroads. What he had witnessed tonight was meant to teach him, not inspire hatred towards all Romans.

"Tell me, Lancelot, what you felt tonight."

When the boy hesitated, Quentas encouraged him. "Speak truthfully; I will not hold it against you."

Lancelot chewed on his lip thoughtfully as he relived the moment Lamorak and Gareth had started through the gauntlet, seeing their bleeding backs again in his mind's eye. "I wanted to hit you." He paused to glance up at the Roman. "No, I wanted to kill you." A sob caught in his throat as he admitted his feelings.

"Have you eve killed anyone, Lancelot?"

"No," the boy admitted softly. "And I don't think I really wanted to kill you," he admitted.

Quentas smiled slightly and nodded, giving Lancelot a moment to compose himself. "Go on, what else did you feel?"

Lancelot sighed; his eyebrows were knotted as he thought again. "I wanted it to be me that they were hitting, and…" He paused, unsure of how to express what he was really thinking.

"And?" Quentas questioned.

Lancelot ran his hands through the sand over and over as he considered how best to explain his legion of feelings. "I wanted the ground to open up and swallow me so that I didn't have to hear those sounds any more."

"With me it was the smell," mused the Roman as his mind raced back in time to his first real battle. "I could put my mind on hold…do what I had to do, but no force of will could mask smell the blood and the fear." He glanced down at Lancelot, somewhat surprised that the smells and sights of that day had been so easily resurrected. "It is different for all of us. With you, it may be the sounds that seek you in your nightmares."

"You mean they will never go away?" gasped the boy, horrified at the thought.

"No," reassured Quentas, "they will go away, but I will not lie to you. They may also revisit you from time to time."

They were silent for a while, each lost in thought as they listened to the ancient, soothing melody of the waves crashing upon the shore. There is timelessness about the ocean that pulls man to it… that lifts the spirits and calls to him with its siren song.

"What of Lamorak and Gareth?" continued Quentas after a time. At Lancelot's confused look he illuminated. "What did you think of them?"

"I was proud of them," Lancelot replied immediately. "And I was surprised."

Quentas nodded, encouraging the boy to continue with his train of thought.

"They were brave," Lancelot exclaimed finally, "braver than I expected them to be – than I thought they _could_ be." The boy hung his head, embarrassed to have admitted his doubts about his friends.

Quentas nodded sagely, "Look at me Lancelot."

Lancelot forced himself to meet the Centurion's eyes.

When he had the boy's full attention, Quentas continued. "They were forced to grow up tonight…and they did. I meant it when I told them they did well. Most of us have strength within ourselves that we do not know we have until we are forced to access it, Lancelot. Whether you meant to or not, you have coddled them and they let themselves be coddled and protected by you. That was a dangerous habit for you and for them. Now all of you know that they can stand on their own two feet, and _you_ will think twice before you disobey an order from me again, will you not?"

Lancelot hung his head, smiling slightly to himself. "Yes, Centurion, I will."

"Then this lesson has served you well, Lancelot."

Quentas stood, brushing the sand from his hands and the seat of his braccae. "I believe I will look in on my horse. Why don't you check on your friends before turning in? You will sleep better if you see for yourself that they are well."

"I am allowed to do that?" questioned Lancelot hopefully.

"Of course," answered the Centurion. "I'm sure it will do you all good, though they may be groggy from Rufus' ministrations." He patted the boy on the back and walked off into the night, leaving Lancelot to consider all that had been said.

O-o-O-o-O

Paska's head bobbed up and down as though he understood every word from Tristan. Fluted nostrils flared as he sniffed the air seeking any sign of danger. Finding nothing in the air to warrant his concern, he turned his intelligent eyes to his master as he sniffed at Tristan's pockets seeking the treat he knew would be there. Tristan laughed as Paska attempted to stick his nose into a pocket that was much too small to accommodate even so soft a muzzle.

"All right, you big lug, here you go." Tristan fished a carrot from his pocket and held it in his palm as the horse nickered in pleasure. Large square teeth chomped contentedly on the treat as Tristan petted and babied his mount, scratching him between the eyes and behind the ears before running his hands lovingly down Paska's neck. "My father believes your spirit was that of his best friend, and now you are my best friend." Paska leaned into the boy as he stroked a favored place on the great stallion causing Tristan to chuckle to himself, unaware that close by Quentas had paused when he heard the boy speak. He felt guilty listening, but hoped to learn new insight into Tristan at the same time. His charge was to teach and train the boys and the better he understood them the more effective he could be, so he quelled his instinct and stayed hidden as the boy spoke softly to his horse.

"Will you speak to my spirit guide, Paska? I am in need to council." Tristan continued his rhythmic stroking of the horse as he poured out his doubts. "My father taught me many lessons so that I would not have to learn them from the Romans like my friends did tonight. My heart tells me to be angry and yet my head warns me not to listen to my heart."

The silence of the night took over as Tristan stopped talking and just continued to stroke his horse. Quentas, thinking the conversation was over, had just started to move from his position when Tristan began to speak, freezing the Roman in place once more.

"I am confused, my friend. I thought I understood what it would mean to be a warrior. I wanted to be a warrior, but when I saw Lamorak and Gareth's backs I was angry and afraid. I was angry because they were so terrified and they didn't mean to act wrongly."

Tristan's next words were spoken so softly that Quentas had to strain to hear them.

"I was afraid because it crossed my mind for a moment to lead Nell away from the attack. What would I have done if that had been Nell running through the gauntlet for something I decided?"

In the darkness, Quentas' eyebrows rose in surprise. So, Tristan had nearly run as well. That was interesting. He was pleased that the boy's common sense and whatever training it was his father had given him had overcome his instinct to flee. Quentas remembered the scene from the day he had arrived to take the boys…remembered that Tristan's father was not at the camp. He regretted that he had not allowed them to fetch the men so that the boys might give a farewell to their fathers. He mentally bereted himself for allowing his fatigue and impatience to be about the task cloud his mind. Taking the boys from their homes was always the hardest part of his duty and he tended to make it as quick as possible. Delaying the departure only caused more tearful scenes, especially from the mothers. His experience had shown him that it only made it harder for him to get the boys acclimated to their new lives if they clung too long to the memory their mother's skirts. He was glad that this was the last group of boys he would have to rip from their homes.

"I have many skills my father taught me," Tristan continued thoughtfully, "but I have never killed another person." He yelped as Paska nipped at his side, seeking another carrot where none existed. "Hey, watch where you're biting," he snorted. "Sorry, that was the last one. Perhaps there will be carrots in Britain. If not, I will find you something you like."

Quentas smiled in the darkness, silently thanking the great steed for diverting the boy from his morose thoughts. Perhaps the horse did house the spirit of a fellow warrior. This night had been a hard one for all the boys, but he believed that they would quickly recover their natural enthusiasm. The young had that capacity.

TBC

Translations:

Papilio: Tent

Braccae: Trousers which extended to just below the knees

MissBubbles, Vintersorg, and OP: Thanks so much for your reviews! You truly keep me going! Once the boys get to Britain they shall meet Arthur, and soon after I shall begin to "age" them!


	11. Chapter 10, The Voyage

Tristan's Story

Chapter Ten

The Voyage

**_Cowards die many times before their deaths; The valiant never taste of death but once. William Shakespeare, "Julius Caesar"_**

Quentas and Rufus stood at the stern of the transport ship looking out to sea. They had talked quietly while watching the setting sun paint the sky in brilliant hues of orange and pinks. Both had made the crossing before, but it never failed to transport Quentas back in time.

"Think of it, Rufus," he mused. "Julius Caesar set out from Port Itius, just was we did. It was a miserably hot August, and he knew that he must beat the coming autumn storms or risk the entire fleet. Two legions he had with him, and 500 cavalry in almost a hundred ships." Quentas' voice took on an almost dreamy quality as his mind pictured the seascape spread out before him with hundreds of ships. It was as though he was actually remembering the event rather than just recalling facts he'd been taught.

Rufus smiled as he watched his commander from the corner of his eye. Quentas never failed to be moved by this setting and the story he was currently recalling. It wasn't even as though it was one of Rome's greatest battles or conquests. He supposed it was just one that caught the commander's imagination. He leaned down on the rails, making himself comfortable as he looked at the emerging stars above and listened to his friend's account.

Unbeknownst to the pair, another was listening to the story as well. Tristan sat on the deck, his back to the against a cabin wall. He wasn't hiding his position; he had, in fact, been sitting there when the pair had walked up. Sitting where he was, he could not help but hear what the two had said, though, truthfully he was now interested in the tale being told and strained to hear the words before they were carried away in the wind.

"When they passed the white cliffs," Quentas continued, unaware of his optio's observation, "he could see the massed warriors above, waiting for their attempt to land. Knowing that his troops would be vulnerable to javelins thrown from such a height, he sailed northwards until he found a sloping beach where his troops could disembark."

Lost in thought, Quentas did not notice that Lancelot had joined Tristan on the deck behind him, but Rufus did, though the big man was careful to keep his head looking out to sea and not let on that he was aware of the presence of the boys.

"The Britons had shadowed the fleet and were waiting as the legions fought their way through waist high waves. Facing the rough seas and the massing natives, the legions hesitated. Seeing the fear on the faces of the men, a Standard Bearer moved determinedly forwards, encouraging the legions until they were all following. They formed ranks, soggy but once again sure of themselves. The Celtic warriors attacked again and again, but they were no match for a battle hardened Roman army. They were driven off and soon sued for peace."

Lancelot shook his head sadly as he listened. He empathized with the Celtic warriors. Charging a formation of the Legions must have been a daunting task, and he allowed his mind to envision how it must have been. He almost snorted, but caught himself as he wondered how many warriors and how many peoples had fallen to the Romans. One day they themselves would fall, and he just hoped it was in his lifetime to see. It wasn't as though Lancelot hated Quentas or any of the Romans he knew in the company. Some of them were quite friendly, in fact. And he certainly didn't wish them dead. If he were honest with himself he would admit that he did not know fully himself how he felt about it all. He just knew that he was far from home and that he wanted to go home to his family and his country. Quentas' voice pulled him reluctantly back to the story.

"Four days later, just as the cavalry transports were finally sighted, having sailed from Gaul a few days after the main fleet, a terrible storm blew up and scattered the transports. They limped back to Port Itius, damaged and dispirited. Now, without back up and re-supply, Caesar was forced to repair his own vessels as best he could and sail for Gaul before the worsening weather."

"But he came back, didn't he?" asked Tristan, surprising himself _and_ Quentas who turned from the rail to regard the two boys.

"Yes," he said softly. "He returned with 600 transports and 28 warships. He had 5 legions and 2000 cavalry with him this time. That was over 28 thousand fighting men, not counting officers." He stared hard at the boy, his heart not unsympathetic to Lancelot's feelings. "Some things are just too big to fight, Lancelot, too much to over come."

"Your legions…"

"It wasn't just our Legions," Quentas interrupted. "Other countries have armies…fine armies. I know; I've fought them. No, it was fate that chose one small city on the Tigris to rule the world, and it is fate that will decree when we shall fall."

Rufus allowed his eyes to go from one to the other. He was surprised at the brief outburst from his normally taciturn commander, though he did not allow that surprise to show.

From across the ship, retching could be heard at the rail. Grateful for the interruption and the break in tension, for he was chagrined to have shown his emotions as he did, Quentas raised an eyebrow and looked at Rufus. "Pelleas?"

"Pelleas," confirmed the optio with a sigh. "That boy must have the weakest stomach of anyone I've ever known."

The two boys at his feet forgotten, Quentas was once again all business. "Are any of the other boys suffering from the motion?"

"Galahad, Degore, and Bedevere are as well," confirmed Rufus.

Quentas sighed and ran a hand through his short cropped hair. "Lancelot, Tristan, bring those boys up on deck. Set them towards the center of the ship where the motion will be less severe. I will clear it with the captain for them to remain on deck so long as they are ill. Stay with them, and notify Rufus should any others become ill."

"Yes, Centurion," replied the two boys.

Tristan and Lancelot were both grateful for the order to remain with the boys suffering from the sea sickness. It was miserable and airless below decks and the reek of stale ale and foodstuffs did not help the conditions of those who were susceptible to the motion.

The Sarmatians were all housed together below decks in a smaller storage area towards the front of the ship. It was currently dark, airless, and extremely uncomfortable. As they climbed down the ladder, Tristan could hear Bors complaining.

"Why don't they just spear us and be done with it?" he groused. "This has got to be worse than anything the afterlife could throw at us."

"Shut up, Bors," replied Dagonet, his voice as calm as ever. "They can't help it that they're sick."

"I didn't say they could," argued Bors, "but that stench is enough to turn even _my_ stomach."

With some difficulty, Tristan spied the one he was after. "Galahad, come with me."

"He can't Tristan," answered Gawain. "He's too sick to move."

"The Centurion said to get the sick ones topside. He thinks they will do better up there."

"Ouch, dammit!" cursed Lancelot as he tripped over a barrel. "Why is it so dark in here? I can't see a thing!"

"The fumes from the oil lamps made them sicker," explained the ever placid Dagonet.

"Where are Degore and Bedevere?" asked Lancelot, as he rubbed his aching shin.

"Over here," came a weak voice to his left.

Lancelot moved in that direction, careful to feel his way along this time.

"Unlatch that small window over there, Dag," said Tristan. "The smell in here is horrible."

"See!" replied Bors gleefully.

Tristan ignored him as he got his arms around Galahad's back to help the boy up. "The fresh air will help everyone who is not already sick. Gawain, help Lance with the other two."

Gawain wanted to argue that it was his place to help Galahad, but the truth be known, he was feeling too ill himself to bother, so he got unsteadily to his feet and moved off in the direction of Lancelot's irritated voice.

Dagonet moved over to unlatch the wooden covering over the small window. "We closed it during the daylight hours because the view of the rising and falling made it worse for Galahad."

"It's dark now, so it won't be visible to anyone," said Tristan. He all but hefted the boy up to his feet. "Come on, Galahad, you'll feel better once we get you up on deck."

"Tristan, I feel so sick," mumbled Galahad.

"I know, kid, come on. Once you're up on deck you'll feel better."

Tristan manhandled Galahad up the steps to the deck. Once the fresh air hit Galahad in the face he rallied a bit and was able to walk almost unaided, although Tristan kept his arm around his shoulders to be sure he didn't stagger and fall overboard.

One by one the Sarmatians made their way to the deck until they were all there. Quentas watched silently from the shadows and smiled. They were already forming into a cohesive group. That was good. This first part of their journey was coming to a close. Soon they would reach Britain and the second part would begin.

TBC

A/N If you are still reading the story, I thank you for your continued support. Soon I will age the young knights by five years or so. I hope that you continue to enjoy the story.

My thanks go to DJSparkles for her beta work, encouragement, a kick in the pants now and again, and her friendship.


	12. Chapter 11, Youth Determined

**Tristan's Story**

**Chapter Eleven**

**Youth Determined**

_By the time a person has achieved years adequate for choosing a direction, the die is cast and the moment has long since passed which determined the future. Zelda Fitzgerald_

_AN: Somehow I must have loaded the unfinished portion of Chapter Eleven. My apologies!_

_Britain – Five years later…_

Tristan stopped, his senses straining to distinguish the sound which had disturbed him. It was a rustling …something foreign to the normal sounds to which he was accustomed as he made this morning ritual walk to the lake. He had picked up the trait from his mentor, Quentas Longinus, who bathed every morning, rain or shine, in whatever water was available.

Now that they were at a Roman fort, Quentas preferred the warmed waters of a bath, but Tristan relished the feel of the cold water upon his body, waking his senses and steeling him for another day of keeping alive…another day closer to the day he would take Lionel home to their village near the Caspian Sea.

There is was again. Alert to anything out of the ordinary, Tristan followed the tell tale sound. His gaze studied the landscape constantly as he made his way towards the slight disturbance. To most people the sound would have been negligible, something not even noticed. But Tristan was not just anyone…he was a scout.

His senses were trained to detect the slightest variance in sound, to notice even the smallest of signs, for that is how he stayed alive. Tristan could blend into the foliage, seemingly disappearing at will. He had become so adept at it that he now delighted in stealing up on his fellow knights and giving them a good scare. Bors and Lionel were particularly easy to catch because they were the two who were always running their mouths.

Quentas and Rufus repeatedly pointed out this flaw and often assigned the pair extra runs or workouts as punishment, but they still seemed not to grasp the fact that their carelessness could get them killed, or worse one of the others killed.

Tristan stilled, gradually sinking down to a crouch, and waited. After several minutes of continued silence he shrugged, rose slowly, and with one last scan of the surrounding area, began walking on to the beckoning lake. Once he would have chastised himself for the wasted effort and time, but not now. Caution was now second nature to him, something he embraced.

The lake was placid this morning, with not breeze stirring its surface. A wispy vapor hung over the cold waters blurring the reflection of the autumn leaves on the surface. It was a rather surreal scene, one that was different every morning, and Tristan delighted in it.

At almost sixteen years of age, the twilight age between childhood and manhood, his body had lengthened and hardened into more of the image of what the man would be. He was on the wiry side, yet the lean hardness complimented his frame. As he stripped his clothes and stretched towards the weak sun rising over the trees, he felt somewhat like one of the heathen gods of old.

Once painfully shy about his maturing body, life in the barracks had conditioned that shyness out of him. The young knights were not housed with the Roman regulars, but rather in a separate facility with adjoining quarters for Quentas and Rufus who remained as their training masters. The knight's quarters were nearest the stables, which suited them all just fine, for they all dearly loved their horses.

All of the boys were becoming men and it now amused him to watch their different reactions to the process. Lionel's voice seemed to be taking an inordinate amount of time to change, and it secretly amused Tristan to hear the still babyish voice coming out of such a big body. Lionel rivaled Dagonet in size, and yet Dag's voice had changed ages ago without the awkwardness that often accompanies the process. Of course, Dag was so tough his voice probably wouldn't have dared to break in front of anyone.

Galahad was still all boy and he tried to compensate for the lack of hair and the still soft muscles by being gruff, but the effect was lost by that angelic face and smile of his, though the boys all acted like they were cowed by him. He had effectively become the group's favored little brother, especially to Gawain.

Bors was still Bors, all mouth and attitude, but loyal to a fault. He and Dag had formed a bond and similar fighting style that blended them well. Dag seemed perfectly content to be the quiet half of the pair allowing Bors to be the spokesman, but it was clear to all that Dag was a born leader. Serious almost to a fault, he led by example and not by word. He would often have to be encouraged by the other knights to relax with them rather than retire to his bed or engage in another round of sword or bow drill.

Brumear and Pelleas kept to themselves a lot. Brumear, in many ways, was most like Tristan in that he tended to accept whatever came and just deal with it rather than fighting the inevitable. He had adjusted the quickest to them leaving their homeland and had been a steadying influence on the others. Tristan admired that trait in him that kept him calm in most situations. It acted as a good balance for the more emotional and excitable redhead, Pelleas. Pelleas and Bors were actually the most alike temperament wise, Tristan thought, which was why they did not get a long at all. Bors teased Pelleas continually about his weak stomach, and it often fell to Brumear or Dag to come between the pair to keep them from coming to blows. Rufus occasionally would tire of their arguing, and would allow them to fight it out. He called it bleeding off the energy.

Tristan took a deep breath and dived into the water, the shock of its coldness nearly stunning him as he took deep strokes towards the top. He surfaced like the breaching whales he'd once seen, rising up and splashing back down with the pure delight of it. Tristan loved the water and was almost as at home in it as he was on the land. He struck out for the far side, intent upon swimming across and back as he did every morning that he could. Before long it would be too cold for him to indulge himself and he fully intended to take advantage of the remaining days. As he swam he allowed his mind to wander and continue its roll call of his fellow knights and their various personalities. He probably knew them all better than they knew themselves, but that was because he was trained to observe.

Lamorak and Gareth had been inseparable since the pair had endured the gauntlet. The boys had shown their mettle that night not only to their fellow Sarmatians, but to the Romans as well and were respected by all. They had spent almost a week being tended by Rufus and sleeping in his tent after the ordeal while the rest of the group all waited at the seaside camp near Port Itius. He didn't think Rufus would admit it, but Tristan believed that the Roman had grown especially fond of the two boys while they were in his care. Physically they were almost as strong as Dagonet and Brumear now, though Gareth was the smallest of the four and still had a tendency to stutter when he became nervous.

As Tristan measured his strokes, he thought about Lamorak, and once again puzzled over how best to help him. The boy had never been the same after the death of Degore. Almost as young as Galahad, Degore had been a favorite of all the boys. Well, Tristan qualified, once he had stopped crying all the time that is. He was an excellent hunter and was often assigned, along with Lancelot and Tristan, to bring in game for the group to enjoy. His death was a blow to all of them, but especially to Lamorak who now seemed to have just given up on the idea of surviving. That was a dangerous way to think, and Tristan knew that Quentas and Rufus had been scratching their heads over just how best to help him.

It was on one of their hunting trips that Degore had been over come by Picts, called Woads by the young knights because of the way they painted their faces and bodies with a blue dye made from the woad plant. Armed with just his bow for hunting, the boy never stood a chance, and his death was a bitter thing for the all of them to accept. It was Lancelot that found Degore's mutilated body. He had taken off his cloak, wrapped Degore up as best he could and carried him back to the fort. Tristan did not think he would ever forget the look on Lance's face.

Quentas had taken Degore's body from Lancelot and handed him to Rufus to prepare for burial while he took Lancelot into his quarters. They had stayed in there for many hours. The knights never knew what it was that Quentas said to Lancelot, and he never talked to them about it. None of them were allowed to see Degore's body or ever know for sure what had been done to it. Lancelot never spoke of that either. In fact, if anything, Lancelot spoke even less to them after Degore's death than he had before. He spent most of his time with Quentas or with Arthur.

Arthur…Tristan turned over onto his back, floating as he considered their commander. A flock of ducks flew overhead in formation as he stayed in the same place, treading water, his breath forming a mist in the frosty air. Arthur was an earnest young man, probably five years or so older than he was, Tristan guessed. He was somewhat of an enigma to Tristan. Half Britain and half Roman, he seemed determined to subjugate the British half to the Roman. Tristan instinctively felt that Arthur would never be completely at peace with himself until he managed to integrate the two.

Tristan shivered and decided he'd floated too long. He struck out for the shore with strong, sure strokes, emerging from the water and shaking his head vigorously. He dried quickly and donned his clothes, suddenly hungry for break of fast after his morning exercise. Tristan was always most hungry in the mornings and ate large servings of the porridge, bacon, sausage and hotcakes that were traditionally served. He had never had the hot cakes until he came here and they were now a favorite of his. He particularly liked them glistening with creamy butter and drizzled with honey.

His stomach growled as he made his way quickly back to the fort. He had gone a dozen or so paces when a rustling in the tree line caught his attention and he instinctively dropped into a crouch, silently berating himself for his lack of attention. Tristan drew the dagger he had strapped to his side and crept through the undergrowth, as silent as the mountain lions of his native land. The rustling continued and he homed in on it, prepared to attack or defend himself, whichever the case it turned out to be. His stomach forgotten, Tristan slowly and painstakingly made his way towards to soft disturbance as a light breeze sang through the trees, showering him with a rainfall of colored leaves.

Springing from his crouch, he jumped up to stand, dagger drawn, over the source of noise he'd detected. There, at his feet, was a young eagle, his talon tangled in a nasty bramble. Tristan smiled. So this was the source of noise he'd been hearing. "What are you doing here, my friend?" He spoke softly as he slowly lowered himself beside the young bird. Soothingly, he cooed to the young one as he slowly and gently extricated his talon from the bramble.

Tristan looked around. He was not aware of any eyries in the vicinity, though he would often see eagles hunting the area. The young one must have been learning to fly and caught in the storms of the previous night. Gently he sat the bird onto his arm, smiling at its calm acceptance of him. "I shall name you Batraz, for Sarmatia's greatest warrior."

TBC


	13. Chapter 12, Arthur

**Tristan's Story**

**Chapter Twelve**

**Arthur**

"_We could never learn to be brave and patient if there were only joy in the world." Helen Keller_

_A/N: I have a big correction to make from the previous chapter. The knight grieving for Degore is Alynore, not Lamorak. Sorry for the mistake!_

Arthur walked across the parade ground towards the stables with measured but sure steps. His every movement was one of grace and purpose, even when he did not realize it. Deep in thought he did not acknowledge the stable hand who handed his beloved Charger off to him. Mounting quickly, Arthur rode out quickly, looking neither left nor right.

"Wonder what's up with him?" groused Samus, as he went back to mucking out the stalls.

"Whatever it is, it's his own business," observed Jols. He was the newly assigned squire to Arthur and the other knights and had already been around the group long enough to know their quality and the loyalty they bore towards each other. Arthur was never deliberately rude to anyone, and that is precisely why Jols was now concerned. He walked to the door of the stables and watched as the commander of the knights rode off on his stallion. Jols wished that Lancelot or Tristan were going with him. As preoccupied as he seemed, Jols feared he would not be as careful as he should.

Arthur rode hard, lathering Charger as well as himself as he sought to exorcise the demons plaguing his mind. Over and over he had prayed for wisdom in dealing with Alynore, but the young man seemed to have given up all will to live. His frustration mounted as each day went by and everything that they all tried seemed unsuccessful. And then there was Lancelot. Arthur had asked Tristan to keep an eye on Lancelot until he could best figure out what to do for him. They problem was that Alynore's state of mind required his immediate attention.

How he wished that Pelagius was here to council him. Pelagius would surely have the words of wisdom to give him. He tried to remember everything he'd ever been taught by the kindly monk, searching his memory for any trace of an idea to help the young Sarmatian.

Arthur loved his fledgling knights even as he struggled at times with their independence and stubbornness. The blessed Lord knew that he was young himself and though he had studied hard under the guidance of Tribune Marcus Gallo, he knew that he still had much to learn about leading men. That they had lost Degore almost before they could even be considered a unit still ate at the young commander, but that had been tempered by his overwhelming concern for his knights. He pondered how best to keep such a thing from ever happening again.

Pelagius had told him that faith must be practical as well as spiritual, that man was free to choose between good and evil, but what about when a man seemed to choose death? And what if Alynore choosing death - or at the very least not caring whether or not he lived - caused harm to another of the knights?

Arthur wiped the sweat from his eyes and pulled up on Charger, slowing the mount to an easy walk. He reasoned that his best chance of reaching Alynore was through the other knights, even though he had seemed to shut himself off from the others. Arthur had noticed that Gawain was the one that came to closest to getting a reaction from the tortured youth.

Perhaps it was because of Gawain's instinctive care for Galahad that he was able to identify with Alynore's pain and say and do the things that the grieving young man could respond to. Gawain could put himself in Alynore's shoes and understand the guilt and loss he felt.

The more Arthur thought about it the more he felt sure that the key was with Gawain and maybe to a lesser extent Galahad. Looking to the skies, he sighed deeply and prayed once again for wisdom as he sought to help Alynore. God willing, his plan would work to save them all from any more grief.

Arthur turned Charger around and headed back towards the fort at a much easier pace than he left, a soft smile gracing his features. Night was gathering as he entered the gates to the fort.

O-o-O-o-O

Quentas sat at the small wooden table in his quarters staring into the mug of ale before him. A brass lantern sat squarely in the center of the table adding its light to the fire flickering in the fireplace.

"How much longer are you going to sit there?" questioned Rufus, as he sat on the bed sharpening his knife on a log leather strap.

"As long as I have to," replied Quentas testily. He sighed and took a deep drink of the ale, wiping his mouth with his sleeve as he finished.

A knock at the door interrupted the pair before Rufus could respond, and he got up to see who it was. Arthur was standing before the opened door. Rufus's eyebrows climbed his head as he looked back to give a small nod of his head to Quentas.

"I believe I will go to the tavern for some ale. I favor some female company for the evening," said Rufus. He turned and tossed his knife onto the bed by his sharpening strap and stepped past Arthur. "Sir."

Quentas rose from his seat and nodded to Arthur. "Come in, Sir."

"Thank you, Commander. I would like to ask your permission to try an idea I have to bring Alynore from his despair."

Quentas sat down and motioned Arthur to the seat across from him. "You are their commander. I am only their training master."

"You have _earned_ their respect; I have not."

"That will come, Arthur. Give yourself time," said Quentas. He poured Arthur a mug of ale from the pitcher on the table. Quentas, too, had given much thought to Alynore since the death of Degore. He was a thorny problem, but Quentas actually feared more for Lancelot. What had been done to Degore should not have been witnessed by anyone, least of all one of his young comrades. He sat his ale carefully onto the table and considered how much to tell Arthur, who did not realize the horror that Lancelot had witnessed. But Lancelot had asked him not to tell anyone else what he had seen, and Quentas had reluctantly agreed. "Now, tell me what you have in mind."

O-o-O-o-O

Rufus wandered into the tavern noting that Lancelot sat alone in the corner nursing one of the watered ales that Quentas required the boys to drink. Rufus sighed. He supposed he was going to have to stop thinking of them as boys. They were young men now, or most of them were. Galahad was just on the cusp and would soon start to sprout hair and find his voice deepening.

It was a difficult and awkward time for young men as they struggled to come to terms with the raging forces within them, forces that they could not fully understand. He and Quentas were quite protective of them at this time and had made it known to the other Romans that they were strictly off limits for the next year or two. It was a vulnerable time for the young knights and the their two mentors meant to see that nothing happened to scar them as it had the last group of young knights they had trained.

Rufus got ale from the serving wench and stood in the doorway slowly drinking it as his mind unwillingly traveled back to the incident that still haunted him. Two of his young knights had been violated by some drunken soldiers. One of the young knights had ended up taking his own life, and the other was so badly injured that he was discharged from his duties. The effect on the morale of the remaining knights was devastating.

Quentas had been furious and sentenced two of the offenders to be flogged nearly to death. The rest were severely punished, but the damage had been done. The group of knights had never integrated into any kind of effective fighting group, and the necessary relationships between the knights and the Romans never developed.

Rufus drained his mug and got another one. This time he walked over to sit at an empty table in the corner. As always he sat with his back to the wall where he could observe everyone who entered or left. The tavern was busy tonight. There were two separate games of dice being play and the legionnaires were betting loudly over the outcome. Lancelot was the only knight in the room.

Lancelot sat in the opposite corner from Rufus, a mirror image. He eyed the young knight, wondering for not the first time what it was that Quentas had told him. Rufus had prepared Degore's body for burial, tending the young man he had worked so many hours with and preparing him with has much honor as he was able. Rufus said his farewells to the young knight then and had not attended the internment, allowing the young knights and Arthur to say their farewells privately.

Now he studied the young man, noting the smudges under his eyes and the forlorn slump to his shoulders. Oh, the boy would cover quickly enough if he thought anyone was looking, but just now he was unaware he was being observed.

Rufus knew the signs, had seen them all before. Lancelot was hurting…hurting badly, but holding it all in. He hoped that Arthur would be able to get through to him.

O-o-O-o-O

Arthur had gone to Lancelot's quarters as soon as he left Quentas. Tristan told him that Lancelot was in the tavern, bringing a frown to Arthur's face. Lancelot could be difficult in the best of times, but sitting around a bunch of drinking and drunken Romans was not going to make him any easier to reason with. He wanted to beret Tristan for not going with him, but he had not asked Tristan to wet-nurse Lancelot, only watch him.

Arthur would swear that Lancelot enjoyed being difficult just to vex him, for Lancelot often said that Arthur was far too serious. Well, Arthur thought, perhaps I am. He entered the tavern and quickly spied Lancelot in the corner. He walked over, pulled out a chair across from him and sat down.

Lancelot's chin was nearly resting on his chest as he sat staring at his half empty mug. He didn't speak, but just raised his eyes to look at Arthur. Lancelot knew that the Roman would talk when he was ready.

Arthur cleared his throat. "Lancelot, I would like for you to help me try to reach Alynore. His grief is a threat to himself and to everyone in the unit."

"You can't just command him not to feel, Arthur," said Lancelot.

"You think I don't know that?" Arthur snapped. "If I could do that I would have used the ability on you long ago."

"Perhaps you Romans can turn your feelings on and off at will, but we Sarmatians are human," responded Lancelot hotly.

The crash of a table pulled their attention as two of the drunken Romans fell over a table, spilling the ales of several of their comrades.

Arthur sighed and looked back at Lancelot. "Will you help me?"

Lancelot smiled ruefully. "Of course. You're just too easy to rile. I can never resist."

Arthur wished he could return Lancelot's smile, but Lancelot just had him too frustrated. "Has anyone ever told you how maddening you are?'

Lancelot nodded his head. "All the time. Now what is this brilliant plan of yours?"

TBC

My thanks to all who are reviewing. I shall respond to all that I'm able through new reply feature.


	14. Chapter 13, Alynore

**Tristan's Story**

**Chapter Thirteen**

**Alynore**

_"The opposite of love is not hate, it's indifference.  
The opposite of art is not ugliness, it's indifference.  
The opposite of faith is not heresy, it's indifference.  
And the opposite of life is not death, it's indifference."_

_Elie Wiesel_

Lancelot nodded his head. "Now what is this brilliant plan of yours?"

Arthur smiled slightly. "First, I'll need your help with Gawain."

Lancelot raised an eyebrow. "Why me?" he questioned, taking a long drink of his watered ale, more from the need to study Arthur over the rim of the mug rather than from actual thirst. His curiosity was engaged, but he was not yet ready to wholeheartedly agree to just anything that Arthur might suggest. He liked Arthur, trusted him almost, but to simply agree seemed too much like servitude to Lancelot. The Romans might be able to conscript him, but he damn well would keep his own council as much as possible.

"Because," Arthur admitted, "You are closer to Gawain…to all of the others than I am. I may officially be your commander, but you and I both know that I have yet to earn the full trust _or_ confidence of the knights."

Lancelot leaned back in his chair and nodded noncommittally. "Go on, I'm listening."

Arthur gave a quick look around the noisy tavern and pulled his chair closer to Lancelot so that he could lower his voice. "Gawain can understand Alynore because of his relationship with Galahad. Quentas told me that Alynore used to work with Gawain and Galahad on the journey here…that they would gather the wood together and take care of building and maintaining the campfires."

"That's true," admitted Lancelot.

Arthur leaned forward, piercing Lancelot with his earnest green eyes…eyes that were beseeching. "Gawain will listen to you, Lancelot."

Lancelot snorted. "Since when?"

Arthur chose to ignore the remark as he continued to outline his plan to Lancelot.

O-o-O-o-O

Alynore lay on his bunk, as he often did these days. Third in from the door on the left side of the room, he could walk to it unerringly in the dark so precisely paced and laid out was the bunk house assigned to the knights. It was just like everything else the Romans did, he realized. Precision was their hallmark. He figured that their mothers must all have given birth on the exact day they were due.

He was alone in the bunk house and he liked it that way. It had grown dark, but Alynore had not bothered to light a lantern. He preferred the darkness. The others were off elsewhere…either in the stables with their horses, playing games in the field, or in the tavern. He supposed they had tired of trying to convince him to come with them, and for that he was grateful. He didn't want to do anything but just stay here in the dark and be alone.

Sighing, he turned over, staring at the empty bed beside him…Degore's bed. Quentas had wanted it removed, but the thought upset Alynore so much that the other knights had all banded together and requested that it remain. For once the Roman had given in and allowed them to have their way, though he clearly did not think it was a good idea. Now, as the neatly made - but empty - bed mocked him, he wondered whether they should have asked for it to remain.

Alynore's eyes widened as something landed on Degore's bed. He was startled for a moment until he recognized the shadowy outline to be Tristan's baby golden eagle. The little fuzzy black lump was growing accustomed to the softness of Degore's pillow and would try to nest there every chance he got. Alynore would always chase him off.

"How many times am I going to have to put you back in your box, Batraz?" asked Alynore, sitting up and looking at the baby. He sighed as his heart softened towards the little bird. It was small and vulnerable and reminded him of Dego. "You're all alone, aren't you? Just like us, I figure." Tentatively he reached out to stroke the soft feathers on the back of Batraz's neck.

The eagle flinched, but slowly relaxed under Alynore's gentle touch. Until this time, Tristan was the only one that Batraz would allow to touch him. Anyone else coming near usually sent the bird into panicked screeching that irritated Lancelot to no end.

Alynore smiled wanly at the thought. Lancelot was rather fun to irritate. "So, you've decided to like me a bit, huh? I hope Tristan doesn't mind."

The boy continued to sit on the edge of the bed leaning over to stroke the eagle. After a few moments he slowly rose and gently sat down on Degore's bed. He was careful to stay far enough back so as not to move the pillow where Batraz was contentedly roosting.

For a moment his heart lurched as he realized that he was the first person to sit on Degore's bed since the boy had last lain here. Sharp sorrow and grief tightened his throat as he thought about his friend, and the guilt that he felt over Degore's death washed over him anew. Tears stung his eyes as he just sat there looking at Batraz, allowing them to fall unimpeded.

Alynore knew that the other knights were frustrated with him, but he just could not muster up enough energy to care at the moment. It wasn't as though he wanted to feel this way, he reasoned, but how did one disconnect an ache that overwhelmed you at the most unexpected times?

Dego, as Alynore always called him, was from Dag and Bor's tribe, but he had bonded with Alynore almost from the beginning. Degore was still just a baby, thought Alynore, and he had looked after him like a favored younger brother. Dego had the sweetest laugh and disposition of any of them. It was Degore that would always go to Pelleas when his stomach was upset. It was Degore that would stand up for Gareth, especially in the early days when his stuttering got on the other's nerves.

Fairly tall and lean of muscle, Alynore had sandy colored hair and had tanned deeply during time at the coastal city of Itius. His arms were where his true strength lay, however, for they were thick, strong and well suited for the heavy broad sword.

The tribe of Alynore, Brumear and Pelleas, called Tsimlyana, was the northern most of the ones that Quentas had visited, and those three boys favored the more Slavic features of their northern neighbors. Many years of intermarriage had created the Sarmatians with the fairer complexions such as Pelleas' red hair and freckles.

From the darkened corner bed, Tristan watched Alynore interact with Batraz with interest. So still and quiet was he that Alynore had not even been aware that he did not leave with the other knights. Tristan had just wanted to be alone with his thoughts for a while, and staying in their quarters with Alynore was the next best thing to being alone.

Lionel was homesick as the time of year marking his baby brother's birth day approached. It was the same every year as Lionel would begin to wonder about his brother and how his parents fared. He would talk about home and their parents unceasingly. He would speculate on whether or not old Barak was still waking the camp with this coughing every morning, and though Tristan understood his feelings, he found the constant looking back to be worrisome and irritating.

Tristan was a realist. He was here and here he would stay until the Romans decreed their time of duty to be over. For five years they had trained and grown, and still they had 10 years of service before them, if they were lucky. Sometimes, depending on who was in charge, the 5 years of training would not be counted towards their duty and knights would be away from their homes for over 20 years.

Most of the young knights kept up with the time of service they'd spent, but not Tristan. No, Tristan simply lived from day to day, learning all that he could learn to keep himself, Lionel, and the other knights alive as long as possible. That was the only goal he had.

Surprisingly enough, Tristan had grown to care deeply for Quentas and Rufus. The two men taught him well and treated him with respect while maintaining authority, and that was something Tristan could admire. He favored the disciplined approach to life that Quentas preferred, for it brought a kind of order to Tristan that he had never before experienced. His father had told him it would be this way, and he was right.

Tristan allowed himself to think on that thought for a moment. Perhaps Quentas reminded him of his father and that was why he was not as homesick as Lionel. Well, whatever it was, Tristan would not spend more time pondering it. It was what it was, so why think it to death. That was Arthur's way.

Tristan allowed his thoughts to wander to Arthur. His Roman leadership he wore surprisingly well, even though it was obvious to Tristan that he would rather be off somewhere reading or talking to his God. There was sincerity to Arthur that cut through all the resentment that the knights were bound to feel towards anyone set to command them. He seemed genuinely concerned about them and their welfare while still maintaining command and loyalty to Rome. He was a puzzle, that was for sure.

O-o-O-o-O

Lancelot gave a long, low whistle after he heard Arthur's plan. "Are you sure about this? I can see you, me and maybe Gawain going through with it, but I'm not sure how Gawain is going to feel about Galahad."

"That's why I need your help," said Arthur. "It is bold, I'll admit…"

"You mean foolhardy," inserted Lancelot, although he thought the shock value might be worth any risk.

"I mean bold," insisted Arthur. "I have given it much though. I have prayed continually…"

Lancelot snorted softly at that, but actually remained silent. He didn't hold with Arthur's fervent devotion to his God, but he was slowly beginning to see that it was a big part of who Arthur was, and where Arthur believed his strength came. Even the cynical Lancelot would not take that away form him.

Secretly Lancelot was impressed with the plan. It was the risk that made it all the more sure to get Alynore's attention…hopefully. If not, they might all regret it, but they had not much else to lose. If they did not do something soon, Alynore might be lost to them for sure. His lack of care could easily cost more than one of them their lives as well.

"And you say you got Quentas' approval for this?" pressed Lancelot, unbelievingly.

"Well," hesitated Arthur, "for almost all of it. I may have left out a detail or two."

That brought a stare from Lancelot. "I thought as much. You know that you will bear the punishment should this go awry."

"That is a risk I am willing to take," said Arthur evenly.

"Arthur," said Lancelot slowly. "I think that all of the knights should be in on this. You keep telling us that we are a unit. Now is the time to prove it."

Arthur frowned…to risk all of them at once was more than he had considered, but Lancelot's words had merit. "Do you believe they will all agree?"

Lancelot was silent as the considered Arthur's inquiry. It was a fair question. "Bors will complain the loudest, but Dag will shut him up. Gareth will start to stutter, Lionel may cry, and Pelleas will probably be sick to his stomach, which will set Bors off again, but they will all agree. I am sure of it."

"What about Tristan?"

"Tristan…who knows with Tristan," said Lancelot simply and honestly. "He will not like the risk to Lionel, but for himself he would do it for Alynore."

"Bors," Arthur moaned, letting his head sink into his hands.

Lancelot actually laughed. "You will soon learn to ignore Bors, Arthur, or you will go insane. You just have to shut your ears to him. He talks to hear himself talk."

_TBC_

**Next Chapter: The Test**

**A/N** Do not be frustrated that so much of this story includes the other knights. Yes, this is Tristan's story, but to understand who and what he is, we have to understand the relationships and personalities of all the knights and those around them, for all of it plays a part in Tristan's development as a man.

I deeply appreciate all those who take the time to leave a review. You deserve the best and encourage me more than you know.


	15. Chapter 14, The Test

**Tristan's Story**

**Chapter Fourteen**

**The Test**

"**_Coming together is a beginning_**

_**Keeping together is progress**_

**_Working together is success."_**

_**Henry Ford**_

Alynore was sleeping deeply when a hand to his shoulder woke him up. Groggy, he rolled over attempting to dislodge the offending hand and burrow deeper into the warmth of his blankets, but the persistent shaker would not be deterred.

"What is it?" groaned the sleepy knight. He cracked one eye mumbling, "It's still dark outside."

"Alynore, wake up!"

Alynore's brain registered the voice of their young Roman commander, Arthur. But why would Artorius be in their quarters in the middle of the night? He sat up trying to shake the grogginess from his brain. In the predawn darkness, the full moon still shone through the windows illuminating the empty beds of the other knights. He stared in confusion at the rows of neatly made beds. Besides himself and Arthur, only Batraz was present, roosting contentedly on Degore's pillow on the bed next to him.

"What's going on?" asked the bewildered knight.

"Just get dressed and come with me," replied Arthur. "Quickly now," he added.

Alynore hurried to dress. He tried to gain more information from Arthur as he did so, but the commander simply stared mutely at him. Once he had finished dressing, Arthur motioned for him to follow.

Arthur led Alynore out from the barracks. They crossed in front of the darkened stables where their horses were kept and Alynore had a quick longing to go inside and nuzzle his mount's velvety nose. Perhaps that would bring some reality to the situation.

But Arthur led the young man determinedly past the stables.

Alynore shivered in the predawn air and watched his breath form wispy clouds before his face. A heavy fog lay across the landscape lending a spectral feel to the landscape and transforming what should be familiar boundaries into strange and alien surroundings.

Still on they walked, Alynore puzzled and Arthur silent and mysterious. At last Alynore began to recognize where he was by the sabers and swords rising from the ground like ghostly hands reaching for him. He shivered again, but this time not entirely from the cold.

"Arthur..."

"Quiet," snapped the commander. "You are not to talk."

More disoriented than ever, Alynore gulped back his questions and fought to still his rapidly beating heart. Whatever was going on he was sure he was not going to like it.

Within seconds Arthur stopped.

Of course, Alynore realized, it would be at Degore's grave. It was still newly made, a fresh earthen scar marring the otherwise green hill. The young knight felt the quick sting of tears burn his eyes as he looked anew at his friend's resting place. Mindful of Arthur's earlier rebuke, he kept his musing to himself.

Slowly a rustling penetrated his thoughts and he looked up in astonishment to see all of the knights emerging from the mists to encircle him and the grave. Each young man was in his full battle dress but without the customary brachium or bracers used to protect the wrists and lower arms. They spoke not a word but moved to stand shoulder to shoulder. Pelleas appeared to be taking deep breaths to calm his roiling insides, but other than that they made no sound.

"Alynore," said Arthur solemnly, drawing the young knight's eyes back to him.

Alynore could see that the commander, too, had drawn his dagger and he felt a quick jolt of fear. Had the knights so tired of his moping about that he was to be assigned to the earth here with Degore? His eyes looked wildly around the circle but found no comfort there.

"Alynore," Arthur said again. "Look at me."

Alynore forced his eyes back to Arthur.

"Here lies Degore. He was loved and he is missed, but he _is_ gone. We cannot bring him back, no matter how much we might wish to. We here in this circle are your friends and comrades, but more than that we are your brothers, dependent upon each other for our lives. When one of us falters, we all falter. When one of us is weak, we are all weak. No one of us alone is as strong as all of us together. Do you believe this?"

So intently was the young knight thinking about what his commander spoke that it took him a moment to realize that Arthur had actually asked him a question that required an answer. He raised his head to look at the young Roman. "Yes, I recognize the truth of what you say."

"That is a start," replied Arthur. "As a family we are to share each other's burdens and to bear each other's grief. But you have not allowed us to be a part of your grief. You wrap it around yourself like a cloak of iron, shutting us away from your heart, but in doing so you also shut yourself away from the needs of your unit. Your distraction endangers not only yourself but every one of these…your fellow knights."

Alynore gulped softly as the truth of Arthur's words began to penetrate his mind, and he hung his head ashamedly. "I do not know how to stop the grief."

Arthur stepped up to face the young knight, his face only inches from the other. He placed his right hand on Alynore's shoulder and squeezed his support. "We do not ask you to stop the grief, only to share it, and to recognize that you are not the only one touched by sadness."

Arthur stepped back and nodded to Gawain, who stepped forward to address Alynore. "We are your fellow knights. We live together, we fight together, and we will die together. Not all of us will leave this land. That is not a pretty truth, but it is a truth none the less."

Before Alynore's astonished eyes, Gawain held his arm out over Degore's grave and taking his dagger slashed his wrist. He held the arm stiffly out so that the blood dripped onto the fresh earth below. One by one the other knights repeated the action until all their arms dripped blood onto the ground and the soil turned black in huge splotches. Even Arthur cut his wrist and held it out.

"What are you doing?" shouted Alynore, horror filling his entire being.

Lancelot spoke quietly. "We are just doing what you have done."

"What I have done?" questioned the confused knight.

"Yes, what you have done…given up on life. Worse, given up on us," answered Lancelot hotly.

Alynore stared at Lancelot, feeling the anger coming off of him in waves. His eyes were drawn to the ugly gash on the knight's arm.

"It is your choice, Alynore," said Tristan, drawing the boy's attention. "All die eventually. We have simply chosen to live and fight together or to die together."

"Here, _now_," inserted Dag, ever the one for brevity.

"If we do not support each other, then who will?" asked Galahad. "The Romans?"

"If we don't work and fight as one company, we will surely die alone…as individuals," said Tristan. "So choose."

Only Alynore's panting, panic stricken breath could be heard for several moments before he finally sunk to his knees, weeping at their feet. "Please stop, please…I never meant for this to happen." The stark reality of the blood of his friends sinking into Degore's grave shamed him and made him realize how very much each of the young men meant to him. He would sooner cut out his own heart as see them suffer, yet here they were, literally bleeding to death in order to convince him of their loyalty and their support for him, and asking only that he show them that same support and loyalty.

"What, Alynore," questioned Arthur. "Say it!"

"I want you all to stop bleeding." He looked up from where he still kneeled, tears streaking his face. "We are one and we will fight as one and deny our enemies with all that we have. Only please bind your arms for I cannot bear to see any more of your blood spilt on my behalf."

"Jols," called Arthur, and the squire appeared from the mists. He bore a large bag, which Alynore recognized has the bag that Jols kept full of healing supplies.

"Gawain first, for he has lost the most blood," said the commander urgently. "The rest of you, grip your wrists until Jols can disinfect and bandage them." Ignoring his own bleeding wrist, the commander knelt beside the stricken knight. Arthur pulled him into an embrace and soothed his cries as he would a child. "Your grief will be lighter for letting your friends share the load of it. Now, be hushed, for we are well and we stand here beside you, brother. With God's help, may this be the last time we ever stand in this place."

TBC

A/N: I apologize for the brevity of this chapter, but a particularly difficult case of bronchitis has kept me sideline for a bit. I want to assure you, however, that I have not lost interest in this story, and I hope that you have not lost interest either. I will do my best as I recover to be more consistent with updates.

Merry Christmas and may the blessings of the season be with you.


	16. Chapter 15, Price of Friendship

**Tristan's Story**

**Chapter Fifteen**

**The Price of Friendship**

"**_A friend is someone who knows the song in your heart and can sing it back to you when you have forgotten the words." _**

_**Unknown**_

The crash could be heard all over the compound. From their perch atop the wall, the Roman guards turned to look towards the officer's quarters, alarmed at the furious pounding they could hear emanating from that area.

"They did _what?"_ shouted Quentas. His fury at the impetuous and downright dangerous _stunt_ pulled by the knights knew no boundary. Grabbing the earthenware jug of ale from the table top, he flung it across the room to smash against the wall. When that didn't bank the fires of his ire, he flipped the table onto its side sending metal utensils and plates crashing onto the floor.

"Are you finished," questioned Rufus mildly.

Of course that drew another scowl from Quentas, as it was meant to. The Roman sat down heavily in the chair and shook his head angrily. "Of all the bone headed…" After a few moments of composing himself and running his fingers through his hair a couple of times he took a deep breath and sat up straight and determined.

Uh oh, thought Rufus, he had seen that look before.

Finally the Roman raised steely eyes to his Optio. "Did you know about this?"

"Me?" gulped the large Carthagenian, "no, I did not." With calm deliberation he reached over to right the table.

"How are they, Rufus. The truth, now!" ordered Quentas.

"They are somewhat weakened, but none appear permanently damaged."

'Permanently damaged," sputtered Quentas, his ire rising again. I should take a bullwhip to them and _show_ them some permanent damage."

Rufus could not help the quiver that came to the corner of his mouth as he fought to contain a smile. The commander would no sooner take a whip to the lads than he would himself, and they both knew it.

Quentas sighed, "All right, you have me, I wouldn't flog them. But dammit, Rufus, besides blood loss there is the possibility of infection to contend with and there too few decent physicians on this gods-forsaken island."

"Jols appears to have dealt with the injuries quite nicely," supplied Rufus cheerily.

"Jols? The _squire_ Jols?" murmured Quentas, shaking his head again and feeling pressure beginning to build behind his eyes. "They commit an act of lunacy in the middle of the night and the only medical attention they seek is from that whelp of a squire. Does the boy even _shave_ yet?"

"No," admitted Rufus, "but neither does Galahad."

"Where is Artorius? On second thought, where was he when all this took place," asked Quenthas. "And _where_ were the guards?"

"Artorius is in his quarters, where I have confined him for the time being," soothed Rufus. "He was in the knight's barracks, but I knew he would not rest properly there. He was with the knights and participated in the so-called test. As for the guards, I cannot answer that question. You might want to direct that question to the Tribune."

"Don't think I won't," shot back Quentas.

"One thing…" started Rufus, but he let his voice trail off as he gauged whether or not Quentas was sufficiently cooled down to hear it.

The Roman raised an eyebrow as he looked at his Optio. Rufus was not one to be short of words, so his sudden reticence raised a flag in the commander's mind. "Go on. You started; you might as well finish, even if I won't like it."

"Very well," agreed Rufus. "The ploy seems to have worked."

"Ploy?" shouted Quentas. He stood up and started to pace the room where the two shared their living quarters. "This _ploy_ as you call it saw my entire company of knights slit their wrists!"

"You're shouting again," retorted Rufus with a smile.

"I'm shouting?" questioned Quentas. "I'm _shouting_?"

Rufus just smiled at his commander. He knew that the worst was over now and that the commander would calm down now that he knew the knights were all well, if somewhat the worse for wear.

O-o-O-o-O

Arthur felt as though he had just laid his head upon his pillow. Whatever it was that Jols had given him was not settling in his stomach very well at all and on top of that his head pounded abominably. He had finally allowed Jols to bandage his wrist – after he had been able to console Alynore enough so that the young knight could gain control of his emotions once more. In the process he had probably lost more blood than was good for him, but Arthur would do it again.

The sound of the door crashing open cut through the young Roman's head like the sound of a thousand drums all banging at once, and he groaned in response. He rolled over towards the door and pried open an eye to see who or what could have caused such agony in his skull and was met with the visage of one very unhappy Roman Tribune. Arthur sighed to himself. He had expected this confrontation, but had hoped it would be delayed until he was somewhat recovered.

Groggily he came to his feet and moved to stand at attention before his Commander. "Yes, Tribune," he managed to squeak out.

Six feet tall and muscled like an ox, Tribune Marcus Gallo glared at his young charge. "I'm very disappointed in you, Arthur."

Arthur winced slightly at the anger in the Tribune's voice.

"I do regret disappointing you, Tribune," replied Arthur honestly.

"You are charged with the well being of your knights. It is your job to keep them alive to the best of your ability within your orders, is it not? Have I not impressed upon you the sacred charge you bear?"

Arthur's face remained ashen and impassive. "I would never place my knights in danger…"

"And yet you did just that!" interrupted Gallo. "Quentas is furious, and I cannot say that I blame him. He is the one that had to face the parents of those boys when he took them from their homes. He is the one who has nurtured and trained them for five years, and for what? To see them endangered before they even begin their true duties?" Marcus sighed. He was not unsympathetic with Arthur's reasoning; it was his method that he questioned. He now had injured knights and one very angry commander to contend with.

"Outside, Arthur, your punishment must be for all to see."

Arthur's chin rose a fraction. He would accept his punishment a dozen times if it would protect his knights.

O-o-O-o-O

Gawain groaned and rolled over on to his side. He felt dizzy and it made him feel sick to his stomach. From the bunk across from him to his right Pelleas moaned, rolled over, and emptied his stomach into the bucket that Jols had placed by his bed for that purpose.

That was too much for Gawain who pushed his feet over the side of the bed – away from Pelleas - and sat up. Galahad was asleep on the facing bunk. "Bugger," he said to no one in particular, "that kid could sleep through a battle."

From behind him Pelleas retched again and Gawain forced himself to stand up, swaying slightly when he did so. In a flash Jols was by his side attempting to help him to sit back down on the bed.

"No," said Gawain. "I have to get out of here before I lose my insides like Pelleas. I need some air."

"All right," sighed Jols, "but let me walk with you."

"I am not an invalid," shouted Gawain, and was immediately sorry that he had done so for the pounding in his head.

"Quiet!" bellowed Bors from across the room. He groaned loudly. "What poison did you give us, Jols?"

Jols just smiled. "No poison, my friend, just some rot gut ale I procured from the garrison. I thought you might need the real thing after last night."

"You gave us real ale from the legions?" asked Tristan. "Quentas never lets us have more than watered wine."

"Are you crazy?" shouted Bors again.

"Am _I_ crazy?" repeated Jols. "Did _I_ slash my wrist in the middle of the night?"

"Just shut up," moaned Bors, "and let me die in peace."

"Oh, no, you're only going to wish you could die," came a loud voice from the doorway. Quentas stood there, a scowl on his handsome face. "Up, all of you, get up. I want you outside and in formation…._now." _He turned and walked back outside without looking back.

Rufus walked into the room to keep the knights moving and to secretly assess the condition of each of the boys.

From around the room various moans and curses were murmured as the Sarmatians struggled to their feet. Rufus had to kick Galahad in the foot to wake the young one.

Galahad sat up too quickly and immediately moaned and grabbed his head. "Whas wrong wih me?"

"You're drunk," grinned Rufus, "and it serves you all right. You want to act like men, you'll get treated like men. Good work, Jols. Maybe next time they'll think before they act."

"We _did_ think," growled Dagonet. "We did what we had to do."

"Good," answered Rufus, "then you will all be perfectly happy to accept the consequences for your actions."

"What do you think we've been doing?" queried Pelleas, retching again into the slop bucket.

Rufus simply raised an eyebrow at the red head and smiled. "That is Jol's payment for your actions, now you are about to face those of a very unhappy Roman."

"Where is Arthur?" asked Tristan.

"Arthur is even now standing at attention by Quentas. He has already run several miles for the Tribune. Now he is about to run more for the commander."

"Run?" said Bors, "you might as well put him up again a wall and shoot him full of arrows." He shook his head slightly, wondering how Artorius was doing it. "I couldn't run from here to the stables if I had to."

"Your time is up, gentlemen," said the Carthagenian evenly. "Outside!"

One by one they staggered outside. Somehow they managed to form some semblance of a line as Rufus shouted at them to hurry up.

O-o-O-o-O

He was going to die…that was all there was to it. Arthur did not think he could go another step. Sweat poured off him and his breath – what he could catch – was as labored as his horse's after a long gallop with them both in full armor. Worst of all, his head felt as though it was beginning to split open and even the sunlight hurt as though it were piercing his eyes.

"Another round of the compound," shouted the Tribune. "This time you will run before your knights…the ones you wronged." His booming voice echoed against the looming wall where the guards watched with interest. It wasn't everyday that they got to see a commander – even the young one – disciplined, and they were enjoying the spectacle. They would have called down a few jeers if they had not feared retribution from the Tribune.

Arthur's eyes stung as the sweat ran into them blurring his vision. He was to the point of just trying to concentrate on putting each step in front of the other and not falling down. From the corner of his eye he thought he caught a glimpse of the knights gathering in front of their quarters. 'Great,' he sighed, just what he really wanted or needed, to be disciplined before his men, as if the sting of the Tribune's disappointment was not punishment enough.

O-o-O-o-O

Tristan caught sight of him first and hissed at Lancelot. When Lancelot finally managed to raise his head enough to look Tristan's way, Tristan nodded towards where Arthur was now running towards them. Lancelot's scowl darkened when he caught sight of Arthur, who looked about dead by this time.

Arthur saw the two looking murderous and gave them a barely perceptible shake of his head as he went by. The last thing he wanted was for either of those two to bring down the Tribune's ire upon themselves. Lancelot was hotheaded and Tristan was stubborn, so there was no telling what they would do, and he hoped that they had each seen - and would obey - his non-verbal instruction to stay out of the line of fire. This was his punishment to bear.

The other knights were beginning to see Arthur and a low murmur could be heard from where they stood.

"Silence in the ranks," shouted Rufus.

"Ten more rounds," commanded Quentas.

'Ten more rounds?' thought Arthur. His lungs were on fire and he wasn't sure how he could do one more round, let alone ten. Doggedly the young Roman pushed on. His vision was beginning to blur but he forced himself to keep going…keep putting one foot in front of the other. He was determined not to be seen weak before his knights.

Somehow he made it around again and was approaching the knights once more when, before he even realized it had happened, Arthur found himself on his knees.

That was the final straw for Tristan and Lancelot. They shared one quick confirming glance and each moved towards Arthur. One on each side of him, they lifted him to his feet.

"Come on, Arthur," urged Lancelot, "you have nine more rounds to complete."

"It might as well be nine thousand," gasped Arthur. "I cannot do it."

"You don't have to, we will," said Tristan as he and Lancelot grabbed Arthur by the arms. The each put his arm over their shoulder and, bracing him with their other arm around his back, began to awkwardly run the loop.

Within seconds, the other knights had formed up behind Tristan, Lancelot, and Arthur. The unit began to run the route prescribed by the Tribune.

Rufus started to rebuke the knights for breaking formation without permission, but Quentas quickly raised his hand to stop him. After a quick look at the Tribune, Quentas gave Rufus a small wink.

Rufus looked from Quentas to the boys and he realized that - for the first time - they had acted independently as a unit, and it was done to support Arthur. It was all he could do to hold his bearing and keep the pride in his boys from bursting forth in an undignified grin.

He walked over to stand beside Quentas and the Tribune. The three men stood at attention and watched the knights support their commander and run the final nine laps.

By the time they had gone three laps, Tristan and Lancelot were completely supporting Arthur's weight. They grunted slightly from the strain. Without a word spoken, Dag and Bors slipped in beside them and took over the support of Arthur, allowing Tristan and Lancelot to fall back and run with the group. Arthur's head lolled from side to side as they ran and Gawain and Galahad moved in behind Jols and Bors to call their support to Arthur.

Before the nine laps were completed, each of the Knights had taken a turn supporting Arthur's weight, with Alynore and Pelleas being the last.

As the panting knights pulled to a ragged halt before Quentas, he surveyed the exhausted young men and nodded his head. He was satisfied …nay, he was thrilled, for he had seen in them the beginnings of the close-knit group he had been working towards.

He turned and started to call for the physician, but had a different thought. Throughout the entire run he had noticed Jols watching from beside the stables. The young squire frowned as he watched the condition of Arthur deteriorate. "Squire," called Quentas.

Jols was momentarily startled to be caught watching the punishment but recovered quickly and ran over to stand before the Roman. "Yes, sir?"

"Attend to your commander," Quentas said softly.

Jols smiled his gratitude. "Yes, sir, and thank you sir." He quickly ran to take Arthur from Alynore and Pelleas, but the knights would not give him over to Jols.

"We will take him," said Lancelot simply. There was no rancor in his words. The knights were not attempting to cut Jols out of the care, only to continue to show their support for Arthur.

Jols understood. He turned to Quentas, "By your leave, commander?"

Quentas nodded his dismissal.

Jols turned back to the knights. "Take him to his quarters. I will get my bag and attend him there."

As the knights trudged off, Marcus, Quentas, and Rufus stood watching them leave.

"Well, well, well," said Marcus finally. "That turned out better than I could have hoped."

Quentas smiled. "I do believe we have just witnessed the birth of a brotherhood of knights. I've never seen a group come together quite so dramatically."

"And they might not have had young Degore not gotten himself killed," added Rufus. "Strange, is it not?"

"I believe I will walk out to Degore's resting place to pay my respects," said Quentas quietly.

Marcus and Rufus watched Quentas walk purposefully towards the cemetery holding the remains of generations of Sarmatian Knights.

"What's that about?" asked the Tribune.

Rufus raised an eyebrow and smiled slightly. "I believe he is going to say thank you to a young man who died far too young and far too horribly, but who may have bought life for his friends as his final gift."

The tribune looked at Rufus for a moment as though he'd lost his mind and then shook his head before walking off.

Rufus stood watching Quentas stand vigil over Degore's grave until after the sun had set.

TBC


	17. Chapter 16, Rites of Passage

**Tristan's Story**

**Chapter Sixteen**

**Rite of Passage**

_When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put childish ways behind me._

_1 Corinthians 13: 11, The Bible. NIV_

_For MissBubbles, my most faithful reviewer._

"Come on, Lionel, wake up," Tristan urged the young man who occupied the bed beside his own.

From somewhere in the room, one of the sleeping men coughed and turned over.

Tristan kept still for a moment. After a few seconds he expelled the breath he had been holding. Today was important and he wanted to share it with Lionel before the others woke up. He lowered his voice and whispered again, this time giving Lionel's shoulder a shake.

"Wake up, Nel!" he ordered. "It's time to go."

"Ty?"

"Quiet, not so loud," shushed Tristan, but he couldn't help smiling. Reverting to the use of Lionel's childhood nickname always caused him to respond in kind. It had been many years since he and Lionel roamed the sea shores of his homeland as Ty and Nel, but today he meant to remember those days, to honor them and to mark their passage.

Lionel rose up on one elbow straining to see his friend's face in the dark. If he didn't know who was in the bed beside him and recognize the voice he would not have a clue who the shadowy figure was. "Tristan?"

"So you're more awake now," chuckled Tristan. "Come on, have you forgotten what day it is?"

"I'm so tired I don't even know what year it is," mumbled Lionel.

"Keep your voice down," Tristan reminded him as he tossed his clothes onto the foot of the bed.

"Can't it wait until a decent hour?" groused Lionel as he swung his feet to the floor. "Arthur nearly killed me on that last patrol."

"You'll have plenty of time to rest later, old man," teased Tristan. "I can't believe you have forgotten!"

"I'm sure you'll remind me," groaned the sleepy knight.

"That's what I'm here for," quipped the scout.

"I thought you were here to keep me alive?" replied Lionel. He pulled his tunic over his head and rubbed at his eyes.

"That too," added Tristan. "Come _on_, we have to be there before sunup."

"Be where?"

"You'll see."

From across the room a little feathery head popped up from where it roosted on Degore's pillow. Batraz easily spied his master in the darkness and decided to take the journey with him. The eagle did not like it when Tristan made him stay here. He much preferred to be perched on the man's arm or sailing the skies in search of prey. He flew up and landed with a small screech on Tristan's shoulder.

Unfortunately, Lionel wasn't expecting to see a black shape come flying towards him in the darkness. When Batraz screeched his hello, the man fell backwards in fright while letting out a small cry of surprise. "Ack!"

In that moment, faster than either of them could have believed, Lancelot bolted straight up in the bed beside Lionel's. The dagger in his hand was unsheathed and there was a wild look in his eye."

"Ye gods, Lancelot," gulped Lionel. "What are you trying to do, gut me?"

"Shush, you two," urged Tristan. "If you don't shut up the whole place will be roused!"

Lancelot was blinking the sleep from his eyes. "What are you doing?"

"Go back to sleep, Lancelot, it's private," said Tristan.

Lancelot was unimpressed. He glanced at the window, "It's also dark."

"Then you shouldn't have any trouble going back to sleep," replied the scout. "We'll be back soon."

"See that you are," replied Lancelot. "I don't want to have to come rescue your sorry hides like I did yesterday."

"You did not!" blurted Lionel hotly.

"Shush," hissed Tristan, quickly looking around the room. "Lancelot is just trying to get a rise out of you." He picked up the spare blanket from each of their beds.

"Oh," lamented Lionel, realizing that once again Lancelot had gotten his goat. "One of these days, Lancelot," he growled.

Lancelot just chuckled as he lay back on the bed. He rolled over and pulled his blanket up over his shoulder. He dearly loved tweaking Lionel. He was asleep again before the two were out of the room.

Tristan led Lionel out of the compound. He signaled the guard to let him know that they were passing, but was not required to give reason. The knights were now autonomous, answering only to Arthur. Their final training session had ended late last night, and that was the reason Lionel had been so hard to rouse.

Granted, Tristan realized, Lionel was always a little hard to wake in the mornings. He slept sounder than any of the other knights except Galahad. Galahad, it was thought, could sleep through anything, which never ceased to amaze them.

Tristan led Lionel to the lake where he took his morning swims. It was situated about a mile from the compound, which was plenty of distance to give them complete privacy, especially this time of morning. Batraz took the opportunity to do some predawn hunting and flew off into the night.

Lionel was wide awake by the time the reached the lakeside. The night sounds were stilled as morning approached. It was the time when all the earth seemed to hold its breath awaiting the first warming fingers of light to touch the eastern sky signaling the birth of a new day.

Tristan laid down the folded blankets on either side of a small gathering of sticks and limbs. He knelt down and used his flint to start a fire in the smaller kindling. As the fire began to burn he placed more dead limbs onto it. He'd gathered them all the day before and had them waiting for this special moment.

He stood up and started taking off his clothes, motioning Lionel to do the same.

Lionel gulped and his eyes grew bigger. "You mean I'm going in there with you?"

"Yes," replied Tristan evenly. "Don't worry, I won't let you drown. In the name of all the Roman gods, Lionel, how can you have spent your whole life by the sea and not know how to swim?"

"I just never liked it," grunted Lionel. "You know that."

"Yes," sighed Tristan. "I always thought that I would have the chance to teach you. But never mind. You don't have to swim out into the deep water. Just go deep enough so that you can dunk your head."

"Is that absolutely necessary?"

"Yes," nodded Tristan. He fixed his friend with a no nonsense look. "Think about it, Nel. Our fathers are doing this very same thing this very same morning."

Suddenly Lionel remembered the importance of the day. "The purification ritual?"

Tristan smiled. "You remember now. Six years ago today the Romans came for us. Our fathers were at the river for the ritual. Ideally we should seek out running water, but this will have to do." He finished pulling off his leggings and dived into the water.

The warm water felt like velvet on his skin. As he swam he tried to remember everything his father had ever told him about this day. It was sacred to his tribe, he knew. His father once explained that the rite had been passed down through each generation of males from the ancient days. He wondered if he would one day tell his son of this day and how he felt. Tristan decided not to let his mind go any further in that direction, for that would require looking past his time in Britain, and that was not something he allowed.

Tristan looked back towards the edge of the land. Lionel was standing knee deep in water, his teeth literally chattering in fear. He quickly swam back over to where his friend huddled.

"Just a little further, Nel," he urged. "It's not far now. Don't worry, you won't go under. You trust me, don't you?"

Lionel concentrated on keeping his eyes on Tristan and nodded his head. "You I trust, it's the water I don't."

"Feel the water, Nel," soothed Tristan. "Feel it cleaning your skin. In the ancient days our warriors would wash away the filth and crust of battle and rise from the water refreshed and renewed to protect our lands and our people again. Now we rinse our bodies in remembrance of their sacrifice for our freedom and as a sign of hope that one day we will again be a free people."

Tristan reached out and took Lionel's hand. "Just a little more water now, Nel," he soothed. "Not much more. Just let your head go under the water so that your entire body has been cleansed. Do not fear… I will hold your hand."

Lionel ducked quickly under the water and came up coughing and sputtering.

Tristan slapped him on the back and teased him. "You are supposed to keep your mouth closed when you go under the water, my friend." He started leading Lionel back to the lake side.

"My mouth was closed; my nose wasn't," he coughed.

"Come, you have done well. Our spirit guides are pleased." As if on cue, Batraz's screech echoed across the lake bringing a smile to Tristan's face. "You see!"

They sat cross legged and naked on either side of the fire, on top of the folded blankets allowing the heat of the flame to dry their bodies. Lionel was going to be a large man. His bulk almost seemed to dwarf the smaller Tristan. But Tristan's strength was deceiving, for his thinner frame was hard as a rock and he could run all day long if need be. Tristan reached over and placed some mossy, damp limbs on the flames causing a thick smoke to rise as the morning light began making it slow journey across the meadow before them. He ran his hands through the smoke and signaled Lionel to do the same.

Quentas watched from the tree line. He had seen the boys leave the compound and been unable to resist following. Ah, he chided himself, they were not his boys any longer and technically did not require his protection, but they were unarmed and he would see that they were kept from harm a bit longer. They would have plenty of time to be on their own. This was a last service he could do for them…to see that the pair could observe this unusual ritual – for he had not doubt that was what it was – in relative safety.

He watched as Tristan ran his hands through the smoke, seeming to breathe in the cloudy substance.

Tristan breathed deeply of the smoke, holding it in his lungs for a few moments before exhaling slowly. "Carry our thoughts, Spirit Guide; accept our thanks for your watch care."

Lionel's eyes were beginning to water from the smoke, but he dared not speak or complain about it. He may not have been quite as excited about this rite of passage as Tristan was, but he would not voice his doubts to friend. Lionel's father had come from another tribe, where different rituals were tradition, and so he never revered the purification ritual as Tristan's father did. Tristan was the best friend he had on this earth, and that was enough reason for him to follow the young knight any where and do anything he was asked.

After a while Lionel began to fidget while Tristan sat perfectly still, seemingly becoming one with his surroundings. As Lionel watched his friend, he marveled at the way Tristan was able to remain immobile for so long. It was part of what made him such a good scout. Lionel was so deep in thought that he was startled to realize Tristan had opened his eyes and was staring at him.

Embarrassed to have been caught studying him as he was, Lionel coughed and ducked his head.

"What is it?" asked Tristan. He was intrigued by the look he had seen in Lionel's unguarded eyes.

"You," answered Lionel simply. "You seem almost happy here, and that confuses me."

"Why does that confuse you?"

"It is obviously meaningful for you to observe this ritual of our people, and yet you also appear to be someone I do not know…someone who is a part of this land."

"I am a part of everything that I have experienced, as are you. The difference is that I embrace what I experience while you wish to hold it at bay."

"I wish to be Sarmatian…to be home," sighed Lionel. "Is that wrong?"

Tristan met his gaze while seeking to find the words to express his deepest feelings and beliefs to his friend. Words did not come easily to Tristan. "In trying to hold on to the past you lose who you are today. The past is the past, Lionel. The Sarmatia that we left will not be the one we go home to for it will have changed and grown as inevitably as we have. Wherever I am, there is a part of Sarmatia, for I am Sarmatian."

"Your words have merit," agreed Lionel reluctantly. "My head can accept them easier than my heart it seems."

Tristan just smiled. "My father taught me wisely. He knew what this day would bring and always prepared me to grow and learn from the experience. I do not wish to spend my time here in bitterness and regret, for that would a waste of years. Until Rome releases us, we cannot change what we must do. Learn to accept what is, Lionel, and not to spend time yearning for what is not. You will be happier. Change is inevitable. You can bemoan it or your can celebrate it, but he choice is yours."

Lionel seemed to think on the words his friend had spoken for a long time. The sun was full in the sky and daylight warmed their muscled bodies before he spoke again. "You make me proud to be Sarmatian, Tristan."

TBC

A/N I wish to sincerely thank each and every one of you who have reviewed this story. Your encouragement keeps me going and makes me very happy.


	18. Chapter 17, Rites of Passage, Part Two

**Tristan's Story**

**Chapter Seventeen**

**Rite of Passage – Part Two**

_You cannot help but learn more as you take the world into your hands. Take it up reverently, for it is an old piece of clay, with millions of thumbprints on it. John Updike_

_Tristan just smiled. "My father taught me wisely. He knew what this day would bring and always prepared me to grow and learn from the experience. I do not wish to spend my time here in bitterness and regret, for that would a waste of years. Until Rome releases us, we cannot change what we must do. Learn to accept what is, Lionel, and not to spend time yearning for what is not. You will be happier. Change is inevitable. You can bemoan it or your can celebrate it, but he choice is yours."_

_Lionel seemed to think on the words his friend had spoken for a long time. The sun was full in the sky and daylight warmed their muscled bodies before he spoke again. "You make me proud to be Sarmatian, Tristan."_

Tristan sobered at Nel's words. "I'm going to get you home, Nel. I give you my word on that. And if our spirit guides are willing, perhaps we will be the last Sarmatians that will ever be torn away from their family to serve Rome's will."

Lionel met his friend's eyes. "And I give you my word that I will always be by your side. You can count on me too, Tristan."

Tristan nodded. "Then let us get dressed and back to the compound. The others should be just about finished with break of fast by now."

Lionel groaned. "You mean we don't eat? It's a long time until the noon repast."

Tristan just laughed and shook his head. Leave it to Lionel to think of food after the purification ritual. "Fear not…you shall not go hungry. I have packed some food for you to eat while we walk back."

The pair dressed quickly. Tristan whistled for Batraz, who swooped down from where he had perched in a dead tree and landed on the young man's shoulder, content to ride in his favorite spot. Tristan retrieved the pouch of dried beef and biscuits he had packed for Lionel's meal and tossed it to his friend. "There, that should hold you."

Lionel easily caught the pouch. "Thanks, I owe you one."

"You owe me two, but who's counting," quipped Tristan.

O-o-O-o-O

Rufus was sitting on the side of his bed when Quentas opened the door to their room. He looked up and scowled. "Where have you been?"

"Still abed, Rufus?" laughed the commander.

"Well, we _were_ up rather late, if you'll remember," commented the man, as he yawned and stretched again. "I take it you have been to check on our surprise for the boys."

"Yes and no," quipped the Roman cryptically.

"It's too early for puzzles, damn you," growled Rufus, though he didn't fool Quentas. The pair had been friends for longer than their young Sarmatian charges had been alive.

"I have been to check on our gift for the knights," confirmed Quentas, as he sliced a thick slab of dark bread from the rounded loaf on the table. He generously smeared it with butter from the crock and sat down to enjoy his break of fast. "I also followed Tristan and Lionel to the lake."

"Lionel?" questioned Rufus, his eyebrows climbing his forehead. "Since when does Lionel go with Tristan in the mornings? He hates the water."

"Since this morning, apparently," commented Rufus as he chewed the crusty bread. He poured some ale into his mug to wash down the bread and continued. "That's what caught my attention. It wasn't just Tristan's regular morning swim either. It appeared to be a ritual of some kind, though from their mannerisms it would seem that is was somewhat more important to Tristan than to Lionel."

"That's no surprise," said Rufus. "Lionel takes nothing seriously, except his meal time."

Quentas smiled, "And Tristan takes everything seriously, except his mealtime. He's too thin."

Rufus snorted. "It's a little late to be mothering Tristan. You know as well as I do that he is stronger than he looks. He's never going to be thickly muscled."

A commotion could be heard from outside on the parade ground bringing a smile to Quentas' face. "Ah, right on cue. It appears the first part of our little surprise has been noticed. Hurry up and dress unless you want to miss the show," he added, as he crossed to the door.

"I'm right behind you," quipped Rufus.

O-o-O-o-O

It was Jols who first raised the call. The young squire was just crossing towards the stables where the knight's mounts were housed when he caught sight of Lancelot's horse running free across the parade ground. Coming to a dead stop, Jols was horrified to see _all _the knight's horses running freely across the grounds. Wondering how such a thing was possible, Jols raced across to the quarters where the knights slept. Already Romans were gathering atop the walls to enjoy the show. Jols groaned to himself. It was going to take them half the day to round up those horses, especially Lancelot's, who was as contrary as his master.

Galahad and Gawain were just stepping out of the bunkhouse when Jols reached them. "Whoa, Jols," laughed Gawain. "What's the hurry?"

"The horses," panted Jols as he pulled himself to a stop, barely missing running into Galahad. "The horses are out."

"Oh bugger," groused Gawain.

As Galahad alerted the knights, Jols followed Gawain as he sped off towards the open field.

The horses, thinking this quite a fun game, threw back their heads and whinnied in delight as they easily eluded the pair chasing them. The mounts had been on quite a few hard runs of late and were not in any particular hurry to set off again this morning.

Quentas laughed to himself as the knights poured from their quarters half dressed. Bors could be heard loudly complaining as he hurried after the others.

"They are getting rather a late start," observed Rufus, as he joined Quentas where he stood near the stables.

"So it seems," said the Roman. "I rather thought yesterday's patrol would slow them up and give us time to make the switch."

"You going to let them chase those horses all down before you tell them?"

Quentas shared an amused look with his friend. "What do you think?"

Rufus just laughed. "I think you have a cruel streak through you."

Quentas just snorted. "I'm Roman, remember? We are born mean."

"I won't argue with you there," agreed Rufus. "Look, Tristan and Lionel have joined the fray."

From atop the walls the Roman guards were laughing and calling bets on who would be first to catch their mounts. It was a given that Lancelot's horse would last, so no bets were taken in that direction.

Alerted by the commotion, Arthur walked swiftly from his quarters. Something told him this much hilarity this early in the morning had to involve his knights, and he wasn't mistaken.

Seeing the dismayed look on the young Roman's face, Quentas called him over. "Artorius!"

"How did this happen?" Arthur asked as he joined the pair. His supposedly fierce knights looked like a comedy of errors as they chased after the gleeful horses, cursing as they went. He groaned as he noticed the Roman regulars enjoying the unexpected entertainment at his knight's expense. Then his breath caught as he noticed his own Charger running with the rest of the horses. "What!"

Quentas' hand on his shoulder stopped the young commander before he could join the ruckus. "Relax, Arthur, I turned out the horses."

Arthur turned an astonished faced to the Roman. "You?"

Quentas met the look calmly. "Yes, I," he confirmed. "Rufus and I have gifts for you and the knights already waiting in the stables."

"Should I…" Arthur stammered to a stop, unexpectedly at a loss for words.

"Let them continue to run for a while," said Rufus. "It will make the surprise all the more unexpected if they are winded and frustrated. Besides, it will serve them right after all the hours of frustration they've given us over the past six years…especially Bors."

The knight in question, Bors, could be heard cursing colorfully as he chased after his horse. From the side of the ale house, young Valora could be seen blushing furiously as she watched the object of her affections chasing with the other knights.

Noticing the young woman, Rufus punched Quentas in the arm and gestured to where the young woman stood. "Looks like the new serving girl has her eye on one of the knights. Which one do you think it is?"

Rufus spared a quick glance to the auburn haired wench. "Probably Lancelot," he observed dryly. "The serving girls seem to fall all over themselves trying to gain his attention."

"You're wrong," observed Arthur, noticing where the pair was looking. "It's Bors."

"Bors!" exclaimed Rufus. "I never would have thought that."

"Enough," gestured Quentas. "Arthur, gather them in. Rufus and I will be waiting for them in the stables."

O-o-O-o-O

It took Arthur some minutes to gain the attention of the knights and gather them all in. It didn't help matters that Batraz was swooping over the heads of horses and men alike, his screeching adding to the general mayhem.

It was a dispirited group of knights that trod dejectedly into the stables, followed by a contrite Jols, who was still trying to figure out how all of this could have happened. He was sure he had checked every last stall before turning in last night.

Tristan was first to notice Quentas and Rufus standing inside the stables and the stalls full of prime horseflesh behind them. He stopped so suddenly that Lionel bumped into him from behind.

The other knights quickly became aware of the situation, staggering to an astonished halt just inside the doors.

"Welcome to your new mounts," said Rufus, as Quentas remained silent beside him.

Quentas was enjoying gauging the reactions of the young men he had come to know so well, and they were reacting exactly as he expected.

Tristan could hardly believe his eyes as he approached the rare black in his stall. His hand traced the gracefully arched neck and long, sloping shoulder. A short, strong back and high trail carriage completed the picture, but it was the prominent eye, large nostrils and small, teacup muzzle that told the tale. "Arabic," he breathed. Never did he dare to believe that he would own such a magnificent horse.

The Sarmatians knew, of course, of the Bedouin breed, but few Sarmatians ever had the good fortune to own one. Legend claimed that God fashioned the desert south wind into a creature who could fly without wings, and that was the Arabian. Kept as prized members of the Bedouin families, few ever were allowed to breed apart from their desert home. Bred for the strength, courage and stamina required for survival in the desert, the Arabian was also prized for its gentle, affectionate nature.

Quentas smiled fondly as he watched the knights becoming acquainted with their new mounts. Even Arthur seemed awed by the Arabian grey which had been chosen for him.

It had cost Quentas and Rufus a small king's ransom to purchase and procure the Arabians for the knights, but it was worth every cent to them to see the boy's reactions to these treasures.

These young knights had become far more then just charges to these two men; they were like sons to them. They were the last knights that Quentas and Rufus would ever train, and both men had decided to remain right here in Britain until their tenure of service was complete.

Both men had given their lives to the Legions and new were content to retire here with the closest thing to family they would ever have…their knights. If these horses could give the boys a better chance of staying alive to eventually return to their homes, then that was all the thanks either man could want.

TBC

A/N: Please forgive the long delay in updating! I hope you are still following the story.


	19. Chapter 18, It Was a Very Good Day

**Tristan's Story**

**Chapter Eighteen**

**It Was a Very Good Day**

"_Remember today, little brother; today life is good." Boromir to Faramir, The Two Towers_

**A/N: I would like to sincerely thank the person who nominated this story for a Tristram Aware in the "Epic" category. I'm humbled by your faith in the story.**

Tristan rolled over onto his back, staring in the direction of the ceiling. It was, of course, too dark to see it, but he knew it was there none-the-less. He smiled again as he thought about how incredible the day had been. It was, undoubtedly, the happiest day he had experienced since leaving home.

It had started in a very special way with the purification ritual he hared with Lionel. For the first time - in a long time – he had truly felt Sarmatian again…proud of his Sarmatian roots. He frowned slightly as the thought about that. It wasn't that he ever consciously stopped thinking about who and what he was, but more like he just accepted that this was his reality and it was easier not to think of what he had left behind. But, he reasoned, perhaps that was not the best course of action for him.

Restlessly rolling over again, he fluffed up his pillow and tried to find a comfortable position for his body…one that might induce his agitated mind to find rest.

His ceaseless movements caught the eye of Batraz, who flew over to land on the pillow beside Tristan's elbow. The knight was currently on his stomach with his head pillowed on his crossed arms and started slightly as the bird land by him.

"Hello Batraz," he whispered, teaching out with his finger to caress the soft feathers of his eagle's chest. "Am I keeping you awake?"

The eagle tilted his head as though to question his friend. With total nonchalance he began to preen and clean his feathers.

The rhythmic movement of Batraz's head vibrated the bed just enough so that Tristan began to relax. His eyes grew heavy as he thought about his new Arabian Stallion, Oxus. Never had he dared to dream that he might ride such an incredible horse, and yet here he had been gifted with one of his very own.

The generosity of Quentas and Rufus amazed and humbled the young man. Over the past years they had forged a bond of friendship and respect...one that he treasured. He had learned much from the two men, just as his father had predicted he would. Tristan fervently hoped that he would never disappoint the two men or his father.

Alexei…Tristan thought about his father. He wondered whether or not as a knight his father had spent lonely, homesick nights as he had, or if his father had enjoyed his training and instruction as Tristan did. Were his fellow knights good men, like the ones Tristan felt fortunate to call friend, or were they willful, cowardly, or mean spirited, like a few of the Romans he had encountered. So many questions…

When Tristan was a boy and his father would tell him the tales of his knighthood and of the adventures he and Paska had shared, it had all seemed like a dream…not a reality that he himself would someday experience. He wished now that he had listened more to the details and not just concentrated on the heroic feats, as boys are wont to do. Perhaps, he mused, it was human nature to be drawn to the fanciful…longing for a dream that forever remains just outside our reach.

Since Tristan had stilled his movements, Batraz, his cleaning complete, flew back over to resume his vigil in his nightly roost on Degore's bed. As the eagle settled, Alynore moaned softly in his sleep and turned over.

Tristan's mind continued to wander, but at least it had fled the frantic pace of earlier in the night. Now was the more fluid and tranquil meanderings of a trickling brook as he followed his mind's eyes down yet another Appian Way.

Lionel liked to say that Tristan was a dreamer for his steadfast belief that theirs was a mission…a calling, if you will, to make the world a better place. Lancelot more frankly called him a fool. He didn't mind, for he knew in his heart that his father would never lead him wrong…knew that the spirit guides had led Quentas and Rufus into his life as surely as they had led Arthur and the men in whose company he now slept...or in his case tonight, tried to sleep.

He smiled as he realized that he had almost come to think of Batraz has the embodiment of his spirit guide. The two had become inseparable, with Batraz accompanying the knight on every patrol. Tristan drifted off to sleep thinking about eagles and home, so it is not surprising that his dreams were of his father.

Tristan was sitting beside a camp fire watching himself as a boy with his father. He could hear what was being said, but neither his younger self nor Alexei seemed aware of his presence.

"Father!" Tristan called, but Alexei continued to smile across the fire at the young Trystam. How he longed to talk to his father again, to ask him questions and to hear his wisdom. After a while, it didn't matter, for Tristan became content just to sit and enjoy his father's companionship once again…to smell the sea air and feel the fresh breeze on his face. Home…he was home.

_You have been blessed by our maker with many skills, my son. These gifts will aid you throughout your life and may, indeed, prolong your life. But Trystam, remember this, a long life is not to be desired above all else._

"_What do you mean, father?" asked the boy._

_It was the summer of Trystam's tenth year and Alexei had taken his son hunting. The pair had ridden up the coast of the sea and camped where they could be serenaded by the soft sounds of the water. It was the first overnight hunting journey on which Alexei had taken his son, and Trystam was thrilled that his father felt him old enough to now accompany him. It was quite a milestone for the boy, and marked his entrance into the responsibilities of the males of his tribe and away from the women and children._

"_I am strong and it is my duty to protect you and your mother, is it not?"_

"_Yes, father."_

"_What would I be if I beat your mother, who is weaker than I? What would I be if, in the face of an enemy, I ran to save my life and in doing so abandoned you and your mother to death at the hands of our foes?"_

"_I would protect mother," vowed Trystam._

_Pride shone in Alexei's eyes. "I have no doubt about that, Trystam, but how would you feel about the fact that your father ran to save himself?"_

_Trystam's head dipped… his eyes unable to meet his father's. "I would be ashamed," he admitted reluctantly._

_Alexei's hand gently cupped Trystam's chin, raising it until the boy met his eyes. "And I would deserve your shame, for I would be without honor. Honor, Trystam, is to be desired above all else, for we are nothing without it. Honor and self sacrifice is what sets us apart…what makes ours a life of worth. Sarmatians care little for worldly goods, Trystam, only those things our maker provides us…the land, the air, the water and food to feed our families. Our worth is found in our honor and our courage._

_Trystam pondered the words his father had spoken as he looked across the top of the small campfire. Alexei used a stick to stoke the fire, causing sparks to dance into the night sky. In the distance he could hear the racket of gulls as they contested some small bit of food._

_Once he had the fire as he wished it to be, Alexei met his son's eyes. "Trystam, the day you were born, you cried and yet the world was full of joy. Live your life in such a way that the day you die, the world will cry and you will rejoice."_

_Alexei returned to his stoking of the fire, allowing his young son to reflect upon everything that he had been told._

_After a long silence, during which time Alexei thought that his son was growing sleepy after their full day, Trystam surprised him with a question._

"_Will you be happy to die, father?"_

_Now it was Alexei's turn to ponder his son's question. "I have known of warriors who, after living a long life, are ready for the rest of the permanent sleep, but I would not say that they were happy to die."_

"_Then how can they rejoice to die?"_

"_Trystam, they are not rejoicing to leave their loved ones. They are rejoicing to join their ancestors after a life lived honorably."_

_Trystam felt a stab of fear in his young heart. "Do we not see our ancestors if we have not lived honorably?"_

"_I think not," decided Alexei, "for we would be ashamed to remain in their presence if we had wasted our lives or had acted in cowardice."_

_Alexei could tell that Trystam was fretting over his words. "What bothers you, son? Do you fear that you will act without honor, is that it?"_

"_Partly," admitted the boy. "I am more afraid that I will not know what honor is."_

_Alexei smiled. "You will know, Trystam, for your spirit guide will help you. Always listen to your heart, do what is honest, and protect those weaker than yourself."_

"_Is that all?" breathed Trystam, much relieved, for that did not sound so very hard._

"_All?" asked Alexei, chuckling. "You will find that quite enough, my son, for there are many times you will be tempted to take an easier path. Weak voices will whisper teasingly in your ear that there are many paths which might be chosen. Do not listen to them," he cautioned. "Listen to your heart and do what is right. Then and only then will you truly find peace with yourself."_

_Trystam sighed. His father had given him much to think about._

Tristan watched his younger self drift off to sleep and was fascinated to see that his father had spent many more hours just watching his son during the night. He smiled to realize that his father had been like a protective cloud covering him as he slept, and he had never known it.

"Wake up, Tristan," the voice interrupted his dream. For a moment Tristan tried to discern where the voice was coming from and why it was in his dream. A hand wiggled his foot and he opened his eyes reluctantly to find Jols shaking his foot again. "Wake up, sleepy head; you are the last to rouse."

Tristan sat up quickly, noticing at once that that all the knights were up and dressing. Even Galahad was nearly ready, much to his chagrin, for Tristan was normally the first one up in the mornings, thanks to Batraz. It was then that Tristan noticed it was still dark outside the windows.

"Arthur wants you all ready to ride shortly after dawn," Jols explained, noticing Tristan's grogginess. You will have to hurry to get your breakfast."

"Where are we going?" Tristan managed to grumble, for it seemed that he had very little sleep and he was not ready to leave his father's comforting presence.

"We are going to accompany a caravan of goods back to the fort from the coast. Seems the Woads are helping themselves to the supply wagons and the Romans can't seem to protect them without our help," supplied Lancelot acidly.

"Well, I'm looking forward to it," said Galahad gleefully. "It will give me a chance to test my new mount. I have named him Caspian, for the sea."

"You are all together too enthusiastic this morning," grumbled Gawain.

"Morning?" snorted Bors, "it's the middle of the night!"

"It only seems like the middle of the night because you stayed out so late with Vanora!" teased Dag.

"Ah Vanora!" breathed Bors. "Now there is a wench to set the blood racing."

"Really?" asked Lancelot. "Perhaps I should taste her wares."

Bors' face flushed as leapt to his feet. "I swear Lancelot, if you touch her I'll gut you!"

Lancelot chuckled and Bors realized that the knight had been teasing him.

"I think you just gave yourself away, my friend," laughed Dag.

Arthur stepped into the room. "Knights!"

TBC


	20. Chapter 19, First Mission

**Tristan's Story**

**Chapter Nineteen**

**First Mission**

"_It takes courage to push yourself to places that you have never been before…to test your limits…to break through barriers." Anon_

Quentas watched them ride out shortly after dawn. It took all the self discipline the wily Roman had not to go after them.

"You're fretting like an old woman," teased Rufus. The Carthaginian joined his friend standing along the top of the wall so that they could watch the young troop riding away.

"They've never gone so far from the fort," Quentas said softly.

"Yes, they have," argued Rufus, only to be cut off by a quick retort from Quentas.

"Now without one of us, they haven't!"

Rufus bit his lip to keep from smiling, for he knew that his levity would not be well received. Quentas was working himself up into quite a state, it seemed. After a few moments, when he was sure he could control the smile that kept threatening to break out, he ventured an observation.

"You were never this nervous when it was _us_ going out on patrol. What is driving you to such distraction?"

Quentas sighed deeply as he watched the mounted young knights disappearing into the forest. "When it was us going on patrol, I had some control; here, I have none. Our boys are going out and we are not there to protect them."

Rufus' eyebrows threatened to climb up his forehead. "We have taught them well, my friend. Can you not trust that?"

Quentas hung his head, ashamed of his weakness. "I have been in the Legions since I was thirteen years old. I have fought many battles, slain many foes, and seen men under my command die. Yet here I am acting like an overanxious wet nurse."

"They are not boys any longer," added Rufus, before bursting out in laughter. "Even Galahad is getting peach fuzz on his cheeks!"

"Finally," chuckled Quentas, shaking some of his earlier morose feelings. "I was becoming afraid I would be required to keep one or two of the more amorous legionaries away from him if he didn't begin to mature soon."

"Gawain, or any one of the knights, would have killed anyone who violated the lad," Rufus observed.

"Yes," agreed Quentas, "but the damage would already have been done, wouldn't it? And we'd have a fine mess on our hands trying to keep peace between the legionaries and the knights. Ah well, the dawn is past and I have not had my morning bath. I believe I'll venture out to the lake this morning.

He gave a quick sidelong glance at Rufus. "Has that confounded eagle accompanied Tristan?"

"Yes, I saw Batraz happily riding along with the group as they left. Why?"

"Because," groaned the Centurion, "the last time I swam in the lake it swooped down at me and shaved ten years from my life. The last thing one expects, when one is surfacing, is to have to fend off wings and talons!"

Rufus grinned. "He probably caught sight of you underwater and …_momentarily_…thought you were Tristan. I have seen that eagle literally land on the boy's head as soon as he surfaces. They seem to have the timing of it down to an art."

As he turned to descend the thick stone steps, Quentas could not resist one last glance to the forest trail where the knights had disappeared. "Have you ever seen an eagle become thusly attached to a man?"

"No, but Tristan did find the thing when it was barely out of the nest. And the lad has a way with animals. Have you noticed that?"

"I have," confirmed Quentas. "Why do you think I chose that big, black stallion for him? I'm not sure any of the others could have handled him."

"Black Arabians are certainly rare," observed Rufus. "Perhaps that is one reason he is so…feisty."

The objects of their discussion, Tristan and Oxus, were at this moment cantering ahead of the group. Tristan gave Oxus his head and just enjoyed, for a few moments, the easy gait of his horse. As always, Tristan was acting as scout for the group. It was a duty he was not only incredibly well suited for, but also one that he preferred. He relished the solitude of scouting…the chance to become one with his surroundings as he allowed his senses to completely open themselves to all that nature could reveal.

He slowed Oxus and gradually halted. He was some distance in front of the other knights and wanted to get a feel for the surroundings. He was well aware that the safety of his friends could depend upon his doing his job correctly. Tristan sent Batraz sailing off of his arm. "Fly, my friend; I have work to do."

The young knight dismounted and led Oxus into some foliage where he could not easily be seen. He tied the horse to a branch and began to creep forward. When he had gone some ways from his mount, Tristan knelt down. The ground under him was spongy with moss and leaves. The pungent, though not distasteful, smell rose around him and he breathed in the scent.

He turned his senses outward, allowing the natural and normal sounds of the forest to become embedded on his subconscious. Tristan's breathing slowed as his body relaxed into the well practiced ritual. His mind was alert to every nuance of sound or movement around him. It registered the far off screech of Batraz as he spied a rodent, the faint rustle of leaves in a nearly nonexistent breeze, a trickling water source off to his left, and the sound…the sound of…Bors and Lionel!

Tristan smiled. He could always count on those two to be running their mouths. No doubt Lionel was wondering what they would find to eat, and Bors was bragging about his prowess with the lovely Vanora. Not much longer now, especially as they grew more distant from the fort, Arthur would turn from his place at the front of the column and glare them into silence, at least for while. After that it would be up to Dagonet and Lancelot to keep them quiet.

Dag had the gentlest way. He would kick Bors in the leg with his stirrup. Lancelot, on the other hand, would ride back in the column from his place beside Arthur and grab Lionel by the neck of his mail, dragging him off his horse and plopping him on the ground. After he could get his breath back, Lionel would usually manage to keep himself quiet for some time to come.

Tristan could easily picture the scene in his mind. Galahad would get mad at Lancelot and allow his fiery temper to get the best of him for a few moments and with some well chosen words directed at Lancelot. The boy had a tender heart and would dismount to help Lionel up while Gawain looked on and held the reins of their two horses. Galahad could never stay mad for long, however, and minutes later his brilliant smile and good humor would be returned. It was Galahad's ebullience that often buoyed the knights when other forces threatened to dampen their spirits.

After a few moments of listening, Tristan was convinced that no foe was in the area the column would be approaching. The scout retraced his steps to where he had tied Oxus and remounted. "Come on, my friend, let's go further."

A mile back, the column of knights was making steady progress. They were crossing a small meadow bordered on all sides by thick forest. The sky was overcast and heavy with darkening clouds as Lancelot idly wondered whether or not any place on earth could be wetter than this wretched island. He hoped they would be back under the canopy of trees before the skies opened up and drenched them.

Arthur, deep in thought about the surprise he had ordered and that would be on the caravan they were to accompany back to the fort, had completely tuned out Lionel and Bors. To his right, Lancelot was not so similarly blessed.

With a growl, Lancelot wheeled his stallion around and headed back down the length of the column. Exactly as Tristan had pictured, he hauled Lionel from his mount, dropped him, and glared down at the bewildered knight.

"What did you do _that_ for?" gasped Lionel, as he struggled to regain the breath that had been knocked from him.

"What do I _always_ do that for?" answered Lancelot. "Stop your incessant talking or you'll bring every Woad within ten leagues down on us. Is it not bad enough that we will be wet soon? Must we be wet and fighting?"

"But, but Arthur didn't even give me a warning!" protested Lionel meekly.

"Ha!" laughed Bors as he rode by the downed knight, only to gasp painfully as Dag's stirrup met with his shin. "Hey!"

Dagonet simply smiled at his affronted friend, as though to explain that he was only doing what was expected of him.

"Serves you right for laughing at Lionel," scolded Galahad as he glared at Lancelot, who was presently riding back to resume his position beside Arthur. He jumped off his horse and offered his hand to Lionel. "Here Lionel, let me help you."

Lionel took the proffered hand and got to his feet and then dusted off his backside. "Thanks, Galahad. I bet Lancelot would not do that if Tristan were here," he complained.

"Oh yes he would," drawled Gawain, eyeing the retreating form of column. "Come on, you two, we're getting behind."

"Stop worrying," answered Galahad. "Who would dare to attack three such strong and skilled knights?"

Gawain just rolled his eyes at his young comrade.

"Besides," continued Galahad, unperturbed, "Brumear and Pelleas are still behind us. I saw them stop so that Pelleas could empty his stomach. He's nervous about his first patrol, it seems."

"He's always nervous about something," said Lionel, who was then sorry he had been uncharitable to the young knight. "But don't tell Bors I said that. He gives Pelleas a bad enough time of it about his stomach without any help from me. He can't help it."

"Who can't?" asked Gawain. "Pelleas or Bors?"

"Pelleas," answered Lionel, before turning a bright smile to Galahad. "Hey, I guess neither one of them can help it, come to think of it. Pelleas just gets sick, and Bors…well, Bors is Bors!"

Before Gawain could respond, Pelleas' horse bolted from the forest behind them. He was riderless.

"What the devil…" exclaimed Gawain, and then realization hit him. He looked quickly towards where the column had disappeared ahead of them. With a roar of frustration, Gawain drew his sword and wheeled his horse. "Come on," he shouted to Galahad and Lionel.

Galahad and Lionel quickly mounted their horses as Gawain rode off. Galahad could see that Lionel's face had paled.

"Come on, Nel," he encouraged, deliberately using Tristan's pet name for the knight. "Bru and Pel need us!"

Lionel nodded and drew his own sword. "Then let's go!"

His daydream shattered, Arthur's head spun around when he heard Gawain's bellow. It was only then that he realized that not all the knights were in line behind him.

"Lancelot!" he shouted.

Lancelot turned and scanned the group. "Five are missing from the column."

"Now we learn what it is that we are made of." Arthur pulled his sword and spurred his horse. "Knights!"

For the first time Arthur was leading his knights into battle with no help from any of the Roman officers. This would be the time that they learned whether or not they had earned the right to be called knights and whether or not their young commander had earned the right to lead them.

As he galloped towards the direction of Gawain's cry, Arthur prayed that he would be worthy of these men, that he would not make any mistakes that would get them killed, and most importantly, that they would be in time to save the five knights.

It was a ragged, if determined, group of riders that turned their horses and rode in pursuit of Arthur. Lancelot made a mental note to give some more thought and practice to pivoting and charging as a unit. He had been carefully taught by Quentas and Rufus that half the battle, when dealing with indigenous peoples, was in looking as deadly and precise as you fought. The key was to make them fear you _before_ you ever had to engage them in actual battle.

Arthur was riding so hard that he soon could see Gawain, Galahad, and Lionel ahead of him. There was no sign as yet of Brumear or Pelleas. The commander bereted himself for daydreaming rather than keeping better tabs on the knights behind him, but curse it, they were supposed to _be_ behind him! His head had been so full of this wondrous idea he had hatched and the means of making it happen that he had simply not paid proper attention. Would his knights now pay for his inattention with their lives?

He was close enough to the battle now to hear the ring of metal on metal. With a determined roar he charged towards the melee!

TBC


	21. Chapter 20, The Ambush

**Tristan's Story**

**Chapter Twenty**

**The Ambush**

"**_Courage is resistance to fear, mastery of fear – not absence of fear." Mark Twain_**

"To battle!" shouted Arthur. He pointed his sword and spurred his horse to an even greater speed.

Behind him the knights were quickly closing ranks and forming into the battle wedge Quentas and Rufus had made them practice for hours until it was second nature. At least, Lancelot mused, they looked good once they got turned around and all headed in the right direction. Since Arthur was so far out in front of them, Lancelot took the point position.

They thundered out across the meadow as the heavens opened up and rain began to fall in a deluge. Lancelot drew one of his duel swords from the sheaths on his back. Lamorak and Gareth were tucked into the wedge just behind him. Dag and Bors were behind that pair followed by Alynore and Bedevere.

As the knights raced from his sight, Jols dismounted and secured the two pack horses in his charge. He could do naught else, so he said a prayer to his god for the safety of his friends.

Back in the woods at the point of contact, Brumear and Pelleas were fighting well together. Brumear used his larger size to intimidate the smaller Woads while Pelleas shifted back and forth protecting the larger warrior's back and sides. Brumear knew the Woads were toying with the pair. All they would have to do was use their arrows and the Sarmatians would have no defense, but the blue dyed warriors kept coming at them three and four at a time instead, seemingly intent upon wearing them down. Behind him he could hear Pelleas panting as he fought.

"Keep your guard up, Pel," Brumear encouraged, shaking his head to clear rain from his eyes. "You're doing great!"

Pelleas had a bad habit of dropping his sword arm as he tired. Brumear had used this knowledge many times to best his friend when they were sparring for Quentas or Rufus, but this was real and this enemy would surely exploit this weakness to cut down the smaller knight. Suddenly the seemingly endless sparring and drills in which they had participated had new meaning.

Brumear wondered idly whether or not this would be his end. The young Sarmatian was under no illusions. He had accepted from the very beginning that he could very well spend eternity on this island, laid to rest in the graveyard of the knights. He just had not expected death to come quite so soon. Brumear did not grieve his own loss, but he very much hoped to keep Pelleas alive. The boy was as dear to him as a brother

The pounding of hooves drew his attention as Gawain cut through the Woad warriors, his sword slicing with a vengeance. Drops of pink water flew from the ends each time his sword slashed upwards. Brumear was momentarily distracted as he watched Gawain. He had never seen Gawain so enraged. Seconds behind him Lionel, Galahad and Arthur entered the fray. Soon after, the rest of the knights, led by Lancelot, pounded into the small clearing.

Brumear gave a victory shout and engaged the attacking Woads with renewed vigor. The Woads, he noticed, were no longer toying with them. With the advance of the other knights, the indigenous fighters also renewed their attack.

As his opponent's sword cut deeply into his arm, Pelleas screamed and sank to his knees. The slash was severe, and Pelleas instinctively dropped his sword to press his hand over the wound in an attempt to stem the flow of blood. His attacker quickly moved to press his advantage. With a fierce grin, the savage swung back his sword intent on taking off the head of the knight, for there was no higher honor for a Woad than to display an enemies' head as trophy.

Arthur leapt from the back of his mount, tackling the Woad before he could finish his swing at Pelleas' bowed head. The force knocked the breath from the commander as he landed atop the Woad, but he managed to drive his elbow into the enemies' neck in a move shown to him by the Tribune himself. Arthur heard the satisfying, and at the same time sickening, pop as the man's neck broke. He had not the time to give further thought to the death before hearing Lancelot shout a warning.

Without even thinking, Arthur rolled over pulling the dead Woad on top of him. The action saved his life as a sword thrust meant for his heart, bored into the dead Woad.

Lancelot's heart had nearly stopped when he saw the Woad about to attack Arthur's unprotected back. Knowing he could not reach his friend in time, he did all he could do and shouted a warning. It had been enough, and he now finished off the Woad before the man could attack Arthur again.

Heaving the dead body off of himself, Arthur jumped to his feet and engaged the closest enemy. They appeared to be streaming from the forest now that they had more than just two separated knights with which to contend. In the rain, the blue dye ran from their faces giving them an even more grotesque visage, and the stench from their unwashed bodies was disgusting.

"By all the Roman gods," thought Lancelot from where he fought. "What have they done, rubbed themselves in manure?"

Tristan arrived at the battle site some moments later, having traveled back towards the column and found Jols waiting patiently. After being apprised of the situation, he had quickly picked up the imprint of the battle wedge formation in the meadow and followed in the direction of the attack.

Once he found the battle, Tristan paused at the edge of the clearing to ascertain the situation. He judged that he would be most effective using his bow to strike down Woads before they could overpower or outnumber any one of the knights.The scout had no doubts that one-on-one, his friends would be successful.

Tristan emptied his quiver and dismounted Oxus. Pulling the curved sword of his father's people, for he had finally grown into the height and power to wield it, he attacked. Tristan's almost elegant dance of sword play was as graceful as it was deadly. It was as though he switched off his mind and allowed his body to move of its own accord. On some level, Tristan was fascinated to note that he felt no anger at the enemy or even fear for himself or his friends. Every move he made was a well choreographed exhibition of swordsmanship designed to achieve an end.

Arthur was able to pause for a moment to look quickly around the battle sight. He was relieved to see that none of his knights, except Pelleas, had fallen, though several were bloodied. The Woad onslaught appeared to have been stymied. The downpour, too, had stopped and in its place a misty vapor rose eerily from the ground in the growing twilight. As his eyes swept the trees looking for more of the enemy he beheld a strange site. A Woad leader, an older man, appeared to be watching him. Hatred flared in Arthur as once again the sound of his mother's screams echoed in his ears even after all these years. This man would have been old enough to lead the attack that had cost him his home and his mother.

The Woad smiled slightly at him and then seemed to simply fade away before his eyes. He did not know how, but Arthur could almost feel the connection between himself and the Woad. Almost immediately a horn sounded and the rest of the Woads began to back off, disappearing in the trees as suddenly as they had come. Keeping his sword in the ready position, Arthur quickly looked around the clearing, searching for any aid he might render to his knights, but their assailants had all broken off their attack.

Brumear had dropped his sword and was kneeling over Pelleas' prone form. The young man was deathly pale, but then that was not unusual for the fair skinned red head. Brumear pulled Pel's head onto his lap. Cinnamon colored eyelashes fanned across freckle covered cheeks as Brumear called his name, bringing a thrill of hope to the larger knight's heart. "Come on you, stop playing possum!" he teased gently, his voice gruff with emotion.

Pelleas' eyes fluttered as he fought his way through a shadowy mist and his mind sought to follow the sound of his friend's voice. "Bru…"

"That's it," urged Brumear. "Come back to me Pel."

Tristan walked over to stand behind Brumear. "You must stop the bleeding."

As soon as Tristan had said the words, his eyes narrowed as they fell on Lionel and he saw blood on the young man's lower arm. He immediately started in Nel's direction.

Gareth surveyed the group and quickly realized that Pelleas needed his aid first. The knight pulled the healing bag from his saddle and ran over to where Brumear, and now Arthur hovered over the injured man.

After his painful experience in the gauntlet with Lamorek, Gareth and the other youth had been nursed back to health by Rufus. Quentas' Optio had kept the pair in his tent and gently tended their wounds. Gareth had become interested in the techniques and herbs used by the Carthaginian and indeed showed an aptitude for the healing arts. Rufus had immediately begun teaching the boy all he knew about healing. Having a trained healer in the troop who could administer aid at the site of battle would often make the difference in life and death.

The young man now pulled supplies from his bag while barking orders. "Cut that sleeve away, Brumear. I need to pour this ale over the gash."

Brumear hurried to do as he was bidden, muttering all time. "Damn you, Pel! This is the last time you go out with sleeveless mail. I _told_ you something like this would happen." He worked carefully with the knife, cutting the blood sodden sleeve away to bare the injury for Gareth.

Gareth poured a liberal amount of the ale over the cut, causing Pelleas to cry out and lurch up. "Hold him, you idiots!"

Arthur raised an eyebrow at Gareth's assessment of his character, but hurriedly moved to help Brumear immobilize the wounded man. He wasn't even sure Gareth knew to whom he had been speaking, so focused was his attention on Pelleas. As Gareth worked, Arthur's eyes sought Lancelot. "Lance!"

Lancelot nodded his understanding of Arthur's unspoken command and moved to secure the perimeter. He saw that Tristan was winding a bandage around a scratch on Lionel's forearm. Tristan always carried a small bag of healing supplies with which he tended Lionel like a cub. Lancelot snorted and turned his attention back to business. Since Tristan was occupied being a mother hen, he called Galahad and Gawain.

Rotating his finger in a circle, he motioned for the pair to scour the area as a picket against any further Woad activity. He was confident that another attack was unlikely, for the Woads usually withdrew only to lick their wounds or regroup and attack immediately. Since no further attacks had taken place, he felt sure they were gone for now. Never-the-less, this site was not a defensible place in which to make camp for the night, and they had wounded of their own needing attention.

"Tristan," Lancelot called, "if you're through being a nurse maid, is there a likely camp site near by?"

Tristan nodded his head because his teeth were presently holding one end of the bandage he was knotting off. "There you go, Nel," he said. "That should be fine." He paused to smile at his friend. "You did well. Now see if you can help any of the others."

The scout rose gracefully and from where he had been kneeling and walked over to Oxus, who was calmly gracing on some of the wet grass, seemingly unfazed by the battle which had taken place earlier. He picked up the reins and mounted the horse before turning back to Lancelot. "I have a site in mind, but let me scout it again to be sure the Woads have not read my thoughts and taken it for themselves."

Lancelot nodded as Tristan wheeled Oxus and rode off. Gawain whistled the all clear signal to him, and Lancelot responded. Gawain and Galahad would continue to guard the perimeter until the troop was underway.

Now that the fighting was over, Lancelot was surprised to realize that he was furious at Brumear and Pelleas for nearly getting themselves killed. They should never have left the column without signaling him their intention. If Gawain and Galahad had not stopped for Lionel, the pair likely would have been killed.

He walked over to stand behind Brumear, intending to give the knight a tongue lashing but Arthur caught his eye, and having seen the look in Lancelot's eye, shook his head. Now was not the time.

Unable to vent his emotion on Brumear, Lancelot spun around and started rounding up arrows that would be suitable for further use. He knew that Jols would likely have an ample supply on the pack animals he led, but, as far as Lancelot was concerned, you could never have too many weapons on hand.

Inky darkness had fallen over the forest by the time Tristan had returned. "It is safe," he reported to Arthur. "Are all ready to travel?"

"We are ready, Tristan," responded Arthur. "How far? Pelleas is in need of rest."

"Not far," the scout responded. "Follow me." Tristan could not refrain from glancing back at Lancelot. "And try not to lose anybody this time." He smiled as he rode off accompanied by Lancelot's curses.

TBC

Thanks for your wonderful reviews and, most of all, for your patience when I am so long between updates! You are the best!


	22. Chapter 21, The Blame Game

**Tristan's Story**

**Chapter Twenty One**

**The Blame Game**

**Things that are done,  
it is needless to speak about;  
things that are past  
it is needless to blame  
- _Confucius_ **

It was a wet and scraggly group of knights that made camp that night. Once the group reached the site Tristan picked out as defensible, Jols quickly set about setting up camp. The squire kept a supply of dry wood to which he would add what Alynore was now gathering. A tent had been erected to serve as a shelter for the wounded. In addition to Pelleas, who was wounded most seriously, and Lionel, wounded the least seriously, Lamorak and Dagonet had both received wounds. Lamorak had taken an arrow to his left thigh and Dagonet had a sword wound to his shoulder.

As Gareth and Arthur worked on the Pelleas, Lamorak and Dag were seated on blankets near the fire surrounded by the other knights. Tristan's hunting skills supplied them with several pheasants, which were now simmering in a pot with some carrots and potatoes provided by Jols. In addition to being an excellent squire, Jols was also a proficient cook.

Bors was railing at Brumear for being so stupid as to drop out of the column in the first place. "This is all your fault!" the excitable knight bellowed. "If that weakling has to puke every day, then let him just get himself killed!"

Brumear lunged across the fire and tackled Bors, knocking him from the downed limb where he had been perched. The two knights rolled around fighting for several moments until Lancelot and Gawain dragged them apart.

Brumear had bloodied Bors lip, but the loquacious knight was still mouthing insults, even held back as he was by Gawain.

Lancelot had Brumear's arms pinned back and still the large knight was still trying to get at Bors. "Shut your mouth, Bors!" Brumear shouted.

"Let it go, Bru," said Lance. "Let it _go_." He wrestled the knight away from the group and into the edge of the forest. "Now forget Bors and talk to me. What were you thinking? Pelleas or even Galahad I'd expect to make that kind of mistake, but not you."

Brumear struggled for a moment more, panting his frustration, before finally going still. Lancelot deemed the knight had control of himself and let go. "Talk to me."

The huge knight dropped his head in defeat. "It _was_ my fault. I knew better than to stop."

"Then why did you do it?" asked Lancelot calmly and with no hint of judgment.

"Pelleas was so sick. I thought that if we could stop for only a moment so he could dismount that his stomach would settle."

"But that did not happen," observed Lancelot.

Brumear sighed. "No, that did not happen. We've tried everything, Lancelot. He just keeps getting sick. Pelleas does not lack for courage; I can tell you that. It is the motion of the horse that keeps him casting up."

Lancelot looked at the stars for a few moments, deep in thought. "My younger brother suffered from a stomach ailment. Our mother used an herb potion to settle it. I will speak to the doctor to see if there is such an herb available here. Perhaps we can find one that will work for Pelleas."

"You would do that, Lancelot?" asked Brumear. "You hate the Roman doctor."

"Yes, I do," agreed Lance. "But I do not hate Pelleas."

Brumear was forced to look away until he could control his emotions. All of the knights avoided the regular Romans as much as possible, especially the doctor. If Rufus or Gareth could not help them, then they just suffered in silence.

It all stemmed from an incident which happened a month or so ago.

_The knights were in the tavern tossing back the watered wine that was allowed them. It had been a long and tiring week of training in preparation for their first solo mission and they were ready to let off some steam._

_The place was full and busy with every table full and many soldiers standing at the bar and around the outside of the building. The weather was mild for a change and the sun down had painted the sky with the magnificent hues for which Britain was known._

_The knights occupied three tables in the corner of the room where they could enjoy the atmosphere of the tavern and yet retain their space. They didn't mix with the Romans. Quentas and Rufus had made it a strict rule to keep the young men away from the grizzled Roman regulars. _

_One day they would be mature enough, and experienced enough, to mix with the rougher crowd, but that day was not yet come, at least not in Quentas' view. These were his young knights and he tended to be protective of them, or so Rufus thought. Of course, Quentas would swear that Rufus was just as attached to these young men._

_The serving wenches were kept busy running back and forth to the overfilled tables. Several games of dice were being played, and in the Sarmatian corner Lamorak and Gawain were tossing knives into a knot in the wooden wall, while Tristan watched. Tristan was uncanny in his ability to hit any target at which he threw, and Gawain was determined to match his skill. Over and over they tossed at the knot, working to perfect their aim. Tristan calmly took out his knife and hit it dead center, much to Gawain's chagrin._

_Bors and Vanora sat snuggling together at a table with Dagonet, Alynore and Pellas. Brumear had opted to skip the revelry in favor of his bed and some peace and quiet. He was still recovering from a shoulder strain received in a short sword sparring match, and Rufus had been giving him an herbal laced drink to deaden the pain. The unfortunate side effect was that it made the knight so sleepy he had to be where he could lie down soon after drinking it._

_Galahad and Gareth were trying to see who could out drink the other. Normally Gawain and Lamorak would keep an eye on the younger pair, but they were both involved with their knives, so the boys were getting the chance to live it up a bit. _

"_Bottoms up!" said Galahad, throwing back his head and downed his fifth drink. By this time, most of it was streaming down his chin on each side of the mug, but he was getting enough. Slamming the mug back down onto the table he wiped his mouth with his sleeve and moaned slightly. "I've got to hit the privy." _

_Gareth was blinking his eyes as he stared into his drink as though searching for something. "What did you say?" he asked as Galahad left the table. "Don't go away mad, Galahad!" he called after the knight. He could not understand why his mind was muddled and the other knights seemed so far away. An incessant pressure in his lower region registered in his brain and the knight got to his feet intending to make his own way to the privy. He stood up from his chair and stumbled into the wall._

_Alynore glanced up at the obviously drunken boy and shook his head. He looked back to Dagonet and Pelleas. "I'd better go with him or he'll never find his way, drunk as he is."_

_Galahad completed his business and was making his way down the darkened wall. He felt great. His head was a bit fuzzy, but it felt good to relax. No doubt he would pay for his adventure tomorrow. He had seen the other knights suffer from an excess of even the watered wine and he'd certainly never forget how he'd felt the day after Jols had given them all what he called "rot gut ale" that he had gotten from the garrison. It was the night they had all slit their wrists over Degore's grave and Jols had decided that they might need the real thing._

_He wasn't sure how it happened, but one moment he was walking along the dark trail towards the tavern, and the next he was pushed up against the darkened wall with his arm twisted painfully behind him. He was vaguely aware of rough hands and foul breath and a horrible aching in his head. _

"_You and your stinking knights get special treatment while we rot in this hell hole. Well, I'm going to give you a message for your friends…one they won't forget." The man proceeded to beat Galahad with a small club. He likely would have killed the boy had not Alynore and Gareth happened upon the scene._

_Alynore heard the blows before he saw what was happening. Next he recognized Galahad's cry. He shoved Gareth back towards the tavern with orders to "get the others" and ran towards Galahad._

_Gareth had burst into the tavern, his head now clear and his eyes round with shock. "Ga, Ga, Ga…" _

_It was obvious to the knights that something was wrong, for Gareth only stuttered now when he was very upset._

"_Calm down, Gareth," soothed Lamorak. "Tell us what's wrong."_

"_Ga, Galahad!" he finally managed to force out._

_Gawain overturned the table in this rush to get out. The others were only a step behind him. They found Alynore cradling Galahad's unconscious body in his arms. _

_Gawain fell to his knees beside the bloodied knight. "Is he…" The blonde could not make himself finish the sentence._

"_He lives," said Alynore, "but we need to get him to the doctor."_

"_Who did this?" demanded Bors. _

"_That's what I want to know," growled Gawain. "He's a dead man when I find him."_

"_I did not see his face," admitted Alynore, but he left his club._

_Lancelot pulled Pelleas aside. "Go get Arthur. Tell him we are taking Galahad to the doctor." Lancelot thought he knew the one who owned the club, but he kept the information to himself. This was something that he would take care of himself._

_Gawain insisted upon being the one to carry Galahad, followed by the other knights._

_The Roman doctor, one Augustus Ferratis Flavia, was a disgrace to the medical profession. A sot who was admittedly only remaining in the Legion because he had not place else he wanted to go and he could get three meals and all the ale he needed, was more butcher than doctor. The physicians whose skills would one day be a marvel to the modern world were in Rome, and doctors in Britain were few and far between._

_The man was only half drunk when the knights burst into his medical area bearing the young knight. He rose from his seat and swept the remains of his meal from the table with his arm. "Place him here," he ordered. The man quickly examined the boy. A deep gash along his hairline would need to be stitched, and there was likely a more serious brain trauma there. His body was battered and showed numerous bruises but thankfully no broken bones. However, his shoulder was dislocated and would need to be set._

_Preferring to work alone, Augustus ordered the knights from the room. They, of course, refused to leave and a shouting match ensued. _

_It was into this chaos that Arthur entered. He quickly assessed the situation and stepped between Gawain and the doctor. "What happened?" _

_Lancelot spoke for the group. "One of the Romans tried to kill Galahad, and this one – he pointed to the doctor – expects us to leave the boy alone with him."_

"_Over my dead body," growled Gawain. "I won't leave him."_

"_I cannot work with all these…men…glowering at me," argued the doctor._

"_The longer we argue here, the longer Galahad goes without care," said Arthur. "Gawain, you stay with me. Lancelot, get the rest of them outside."_

_Lancelot bit down on his protest and started ushering the loudly complaining knights from the room. "Come on, you're not doing Galahad any good this way." He turned back to Arthur, "We'll be right outside the door."_

_Arthur nodded. "I'll let you know as soon as the doctor finishes."_

_It was the longest half hour of the knight's lives. The doctor was unable to set the dislocated shoulder and his inept attempts had roused Galahad, whose screams could easily be heard through the door. _

_Galahad was panting in an effort to control the pain. His pleading eyes found Gawain's._

_That was all it took. Gawain had heard and seen all he could stand. He pulled his knife and stepped between Galahad and doctor. "If you touch him again, I'll gut you. Arthur…"_

_Arthur nodded. "We'll take him to Jols. He and Gareth can't do any worse, that for sure."_

_The doctor was livid. "You would take him to a squire? A tender of horses?" He pulled himself up to his full stature. "Well, perhaps that is fitting after all. These slaves are little better than horses…"_

_The doctor was unable to finish his thought because Arthur had put his fist into the man's face, effectively silencing him for some time._

_Jols had, indeed, been able to slip Galahad's shoulder back into place, though it has been sorely abused by the doctor's attempts. The swelling would require several days to go down and the young knight would be bed bound for a week or more. The concussion he received would cause him headaches for a good number more._

_The occasion had left an indelible impression on the knights. Never again would they trust any but their own._

Brumear knew what it would cost Lancelot to approach the doctor. He would be forced to swallow his pride, for that pig would undoubtedly make Lancelot beg for any information.

"I won't forget this, Lancelot," he vowed.

TBC


	23. Chapter 22, A Leader of Men

**Tristan's Story**

**Chapter 22**

**A Leader of Men**

"_We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal." _

_Declaration of Independence_

The remaining trip to the coast was uneventful, which was a very good thing given the wounds of the knights. The weary group received no rest in the village, though, for the caravan master was anxious to depart. Two of the wagons were heavily laden with what appeared to be thickly wrapped slabs or boxes. In reality the slabs were wedges of oak, carved and polished to specific specifications. Arthur himself had inspected the loading of the planks and hovered over them to the point that the knights became amused and quite curious.

"What d'ya suppose is in there?" asked Gareth, as they walked their horses behind the lumbering wagons. "Arthur acts as though they are filled with winsome maids!"

"And just when have you seen Arthur eyeing maidens, winsome or otherwise?" cracked Bors, who was irritable from missing Vanora. The young lovers had begun slipping away to the hay loft together whenever possible and were quite used to relieving the harshness of their lives in each other's arms.

"Well," drawled Gareth, "never, come to think about it, but there is always a first time."

Bors snorted. "Arthur is too cold to bed a maiden. He must sleep with his sword and his holy book."

The pair laughed.

"Shut up, both of you," ordered Dag, whose loyalty to Arthur had long been a given. Of all the knights, Dagonet had immediately seen the heart and honor of the man and given his allegiance. "Who Arthur does or does not look at or sleep with is his own affair. Ours is to do our jobs and stay alive."

"Yeah, yeah," mumbled Bors, chastened, but determined to retain his foul mood. He really did not bear any ill will towards Arthur; he was just being his old irascible self, but he certainly was not going to admit it. "You're just in a temper because your shoulder hurts."

"I overheard a driver say something about 'damned English oak' last time we had to push," volunteered Pelleas.

Several times over the course of the return journey the laden wagons had become mired in muck, necessitating the men to dismount and help push them clear. It was a muddy, miserable job that did little to enhance the disposition of the group.

"What do you mean 'we,'" challenged Bors. "You haven't pushed anything. Convenient injury, I'd say."

Pelleas flushed at the criticism, but before he could defend himself, Dagonet responded. "I have not pushed either, and Pelleas' injury is not slight, nor convenient."

"Yeah, well, it's his fault that you and Lamorak were injured," sulked Bors. "If he didn't have to stop to puke every few miles you wouldn't have been hurt."

"Do not raise that argument again," warned Brumear, who had refrained from commenting up to this point. "I tire of hearing it."

Tristan, having had enough of the bickering, spurred his horse to the head of the column where he slowed Oxus to a walk beside Arthur and Lancelot. "I will scout ahead. We will need a secure place to stop for the night and water for the horses."

Arthur nodded. "Find us a good, firm spot, Tristan. I would not want the wagons to bog down over night."

Tristan smiled patiently, "I will find a safe place for your wagons, Arthur, have no fear. Come, Oxus, we ride," he said. Lifting his arm he sent Batraz flying. "After you have fed yourself, find us some water," he called after the bird as he rode off.

Back in the column Lancelot turned an inquiring eye to Arthur. "Do you think that bird really understands him?"

Arthur chuckled. "I would not be surprised by anything when it comes to Tristan and Batraz." He glanced back at the wagons for seemingly the tenth time in as many minutes.

"Just what it is you have in those wagons?" asked Lancelot, unable to restrain his curiosity any longer. "I've never seen you so solicitous."

Arthur's look lingered on the wagons for only a moment more before he met Lancelot's eyes. "It is a surprise for the knights...for all of us, really. I hope you will be pleased."

"That is all you're going to say?" prodded Lancelot.

"Yes," smirked Arthur. "What are the men saying?"

Lancelot rolled his eyes. "Gareth has decided you have beautiful women hidden in boxes."

Arthur blushed, embarrassed and momentarily at a loss for words. His job left him little time for even thinking of women, and when he did, he dismissed the idea. This was no life for a woman. His mother had paid the price for his father's involvement with the military, and Arthur would not allow that danger for a wife of his. He had already covenanted in his heart to wait until after their term of service was complete before taking a wife.

Lancelot eyed Arthur, acutely aware of the man's unease. He had, of course, noticed that Arthur never flirted with the serving wenches in the tavern, when Lance could actually get him in there to share a drink. Arthur clung to some code that Lancelot did not understand. The knight sighed; he wished that his friend would relax more and let loose the mantle of leadership that weighed so heavily upon him. He sought to lighten the Arthur's spirits.

"Galahad is hoping the Gareth is correct, for he is beginning to fancy the idea of himself as what he would call a womanizer. It's the smile, you understand. The maids cannot resist it."

Arthur smiled, as Lance knew he would.

"If Galahad only knew how some of the Romans had eyed him these last months before he finally began to sprout whiskers, he would not be so quick to fancy himself such a devastating temptation to women," Lancelot added.

Arthur's mind was drawn back to the night of the attack, and he once more thanked God the assault had not taken _that_ turn. "Is he completely over the incident, Lancelot? I have not heard him speak of it since that night. He would not talk to me at all about it."

Lancelot rode silently a few moments before looking at Arthur. "If he speaks of it, it is to Gawain. We have taken precautions to see that all the younger ones do not to walk alone at night, and he knows the guilty party has been punished..."

"By you," interrupted Arthur.

"By someone," admitted Lancelot. "It has never been proven who that person might be, has it?"

"You know it has not," admitted Arthur. "You should have come to me with the information, Lancelot. I would have taken care of the matter without putting any of you in jeopardy. If you had been caught striking a Roman Officer, you could have been hung." Arthur shuddered to even think about it.

"But we were not caught."

It took Arthur a few moments to realize what Lancelot had said and, more importantly, what he had just done. He had just admitted openly, and for the first time, that he and at least one other knight were responsible for the beating that had been administered to a particularly nasty Roman. Arthur swallowed. "I thank you for your trust, Lancelot; belated as it is," he added wryly. "Next time trust me on the front end so that I may protect you and, were I a wagering man, I would say Tristan."

Lancelot just smiled. "It's amazing how Tristan can get into and out of places unseen, is it not? He is an excellent scout. Now, as to these mysterious boxes..."

Despite Lancelot's prodding, Arthur would say no more on the subject for the entire journey home.

O-o-O-o-O

Arthur was nervous and filled with excitement and anticipation. He had utilized Roman guards to assemble the surprise for his knights in a large room near to his own quarters. This would be the place where he and his knights would talk strategy, where they could relax and critique missions, and where they would be equals.

The giant table had 16 wedge shaped sections that, when fitted together, formed a huge circle with a hole in the very center of the table. Intricate carving in the wood was highlighted by gold filigree. The oil lamps reflected as soft, glowing orbs on the richly polished and darkly stained oak. Lying in the center of each wedge were beautifully crafted swords; one for each knight, including the fallen Degore. A Roman style bench seat was placed before each setting as well.

Before summoning the knights, Arthur spent a few moments alone sitting in his seat, his elbows resting on the table and his fingers steepled against his forehead. He offered a prayer for the safety of his men, for guidance in leading them, and for wisdom in dealing with the many different personalities – ranging from belligerent to insecure – of his knights. Finally he rose and motioned for Jols to usher in the knights, who had been assembled in an ante room and were currently arguing over what offense they had been brought here to answer for this time.

Bors contended that they were going to be punished for smashing a table in the tavern.

"_You_ smashed the table," corrected Tristan."

"I had no choice," bellowed Bors to the ever serene Tristan, "you heard what that Roman said to Vanora!"

"Next time smash the Roman," replied Tristan. "That was my favorite place to sit."

"D..d...do you think they found out who beat the...the?" stuttered Gareth, obviously worried over the possibilities.

"There is nothing to find out," interrupted Lamoark, with a stern look at his younger friend. Lamorak had already received one punishment lesson with Gareth and did not care to relive another one. Once through the gauntlet was enough for a lifetime for him. "And _if_ there were, we would not speak of it outside our barracks where walls might have ears."

Gareth's eyes grew round and then his face paled even lighter so that even his freckles were faint.

"Do not fear, Gareth," Lancelot soothed. "This has nothing to do with anything we have done. I think this has to do with those mysterious wagons we accompanied back here."

"You may enter now," said Jols, motioning the knights.

From his seat at the table, Arthur watched when, as usual, Lancelot led in the lot. Arthur had watched him grow more and more confident in his ability as a leader and become indispensable to the young Roman commander. Next came steady, constant, Tristan, followed by his shadow, Lionel, and then all the rest.

The knights were wary. They'd had no idea what it was Arthur had planned. The room was beautifully fitted, but the object that drew all their attention was the table.

"Knights, enter and take a place," said Arthur; "Lancelot, here, on my right, please."

Galahad was running his fingers lovingly over the surface of the sword lying on the table in front of him. Never had he seen such a beautifully crafted instrument. It was a work of art.

One by one, they found a seat, sitting in the same pairs in which they rode: Galahad by Gawain, Gareth and Lamorak, Bors and Dag, Tristan and Lionel, the empty place for Degore and then Alynore, Brumear, Pelleas, Percival and Bedevere. Silent and still perhaps wary, they looked from one to the other, not quite knowing what to make of it all.

"This room is ours," began Arthur when the knights had all taken a seat. "There is one seat for each one of us, including Degore, for he will ever be in our hearts and a part of who we are. Jols," Arthur turned towards his squire, who was standing by a table just inside the door, and motioned for him to hand out the wine.

Jols began setting a golden goblet of wine before each knight. Like the swords and the incredible table, the golden chalices were delicately carved and beautifully crafted.

Arthur stood and picked up his chalice, "To Degore!"

The knights all rose, matching Arthur's motion with their own chalices and repeated the toast. After drinking to their fallen comrade, the knights once again took their seats, unsure of what to do. Even the usual talkers, Bors and Lionel, were uncharacteristically quiet.

Tristan was watching Arthur closely. As a scout, Tristan was trained to observe. He noticed now the faint glint perspiration on Arthur's brow and the faster pace of his breath as he glanced around somewhat nervously. "So this is what we broke our backs pushing in those wagons," he said, as the silence grew uncomfortable.

Arthur met his eyes gratefully. "Yes, this is it."

"Well what _is_ this?" asked Bors, unable to restrain himself. "I've never seen a round table."

"The table is round so that there is no one man at its head," explained Arthur. "We are equal here and I want you to feel free to voice your thoughts to me. Out there," he nodded towards the door with his head, "we are under Roman rule and Roman discipline, but not in this room."

"And the swords?" asked Galahad, eyeing the one in front of him.

"The swords are my gift to each of you," responded Arthur. "They are not to replace your own preferred weapons, but more," he paused as through searching for the right word, "ceremonial."

"For our graves you mean," snapped Bors. "You're prepared to bury all of us."

The face Arthur turned to Bors was stricken. It had never remotely occurred to him that any of the knights would think such a thing.

Lancelot spoke before Arthur could gather his thoughts. "Shut up, Bors; the swords are a beautiful gift, Arthur, as is this room."

Arthur, still shaken, simply nodded.

Tristan took another drink of the wine. It was rich and full bodied, not the watered wine to which they were accustomed. It was apparent that Arthur had gone to great expense and effort to create this haven for them. He had never before seen such richly decorated items and felt sure that the other young Sarmatians were the same. He came to his feet almost before he knew what was happening. Taking the spotlight was not Tristan's preferred behavior, but he found himself facing 15 expectant faces.

Tristan hoisted his chalice, seeming to stare at it. "I have never sipped wine from so beautiful a container, nor owned such a sword. Yet neither of these things is the greatest gift I have received this day. From the moment I was taken from my home, I have belonged to the Romans, and yet here I have been seated with my friends as an equal."

He paused to look at each knight. His eyes lingered on Bors, daring the bellicose knight to say something disparaging. For once Bors knew enough to keep quiet. Dagonet nodded his head and Lancelot came to his feet hoisting his chalice towards Tristan. One by one, the other knights followed suit.

Tristan met Arthur's eye. "To Arthur, a leader of men."

TBC

A/N: I would like to thank you so much for your support and for your reviews. To my anonymous reviewers, I cannot thank you personally, so I do so here. Please do not be frustrated that this story is not as Tristan centric as the title would seem, but I feel that I must show the journey as a whole for us to understand what changed Tristan into the knight we know at the time of the movie.

I have no beta for this story, so please excuse any errors.


	24. Chapter 23, Augustus Ferratis Flavia

**Tristan's Story**

**Chapter Twenty Three**

**Augustus Ferratis Flavia **

"_Our own heart, and not other men's opinions, forms our true honor." Samuel Taylor Coleridge_

Lancelot waited until no one was looking, or at least until he could see no one looking. It was almost impossible within a Roman compound to find that time or place that you were completely out of view of some sentry or the other. If there was one constant about the Romans, it was that they were security conscious.

The knight sighed heavily, already dreading what must be done. But, he had given his word, and that was something he would not go back on. So steeling his resolve, the Sarmatian knocked quickly on the rough hewn door and entered without waiting for an answer.

The infirmary, if you could call it that, consisted of two rooms; the outer or entry room where Lancelot now stood, and the larger surgery and convalescence room, which held several beds. The outer room was empty. Lancelot looked around the darkened room, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dimness. It was early morning, but no light seemed to penetrate the drawn and shuttered window.

The room was typical of most Roman rooms, containing a table, two chairs, a shelf, two cabinet type pieces and a small bed. A fire burned in the fire place built into the far wall. To Lancelot eyes, it was grim and bare, with only functioning furniture and no thought given to any thing which might give it a softer, more welcoming feel. It also had an odd, stale smell, which the knight assumed was from the various healing salves.

Lancelot had once asked Arthur about the lack of adornment in Roman rooms, given their rather colorful uniforms and banners. Arthur had explained that the Romans, seeking perhaps to distance themselves from the more luxury minded Greeks, preferred the look that they considered to be austere and virtuous, in short, Roman. When Arthur noticed Lancelot then glancing around his room, the commander had laughed and explained that he retained enough of his mother's people to prefer his room contain some color and comfort. "A soft cushion on which to sit after a day in the saddle is no small luxury," declared Arthur.

A noise from the next room brought the man's attention back to his errand. Groaning to himself, Lancelot determined to get the job over and be done with it. He walked across the room and pulled back the curtain leading to the surgery.

The doctor was working with his back to the door, seemingly oblivious to the fact that he was being observed. The man was scrubbing the operating table, and bloody water splashed onto the floor as he worked.

Lancelot's eyes were drawn to the beds lining each side of the room...six in all. Three were now filled with injured men...Romans caught in an attack yesterday evening. An attendant hovered over one of the men, and Lancelot noticed that the lump under the covers ended at the knee. Involuntarily, his eyes were drawn back to the bloody water, and the knight realized that the doctor had removed the leg right there on that very table. He swallowed as his eyes went back to the young Roman's face. He knew the man; it was Lucius.

Lancelot was instantly transported back to the long journey across the continent and the day of Gareth and Lamorak's punishment. Lucius, the son of a fisherman in the port city of Neapolis, who had forsaken the role of fisherman in order to join the legions was now lying here with only one leg. It was Lucius that had spoken in soft tones about the punishment his unit had suffered...the punishment called decimation.

Lancelot would never forget the hush that fell over the Romans at that word...a word that the young Sarmatians had never heard.

Decimation. Lancelot closed his eyes, once more hearing the conversation.

"_So," urged Patrobas, "what kind of discipline was your commander inclined to use?"_

"_Mostly the same as what I've heard this morning, except once," Lucius stammered to a close as he let the words hang in the air. He shivered visibly as his thoughts returned to the day he'd experienced a scene of abject horror that he hoped he'd never again see…a scene he certainly never expected to take place in his very own unit._

_Of course, his reaction was immediately noticed by the men riding beside him and of course, their curiosity was immediately piqued. Patrobas shared a quick look with his best friend Scaro, who offered his customary shrug in reply._

_Riding behind the troop, the Sarmatian boys had also quieted at the softly spoken words and intense body language of the young Roman. Tristan's mount, Paska, whinnied and danced sideways in agitation at the nervous tension racing through the unit. Pulling his horse back into line, Tristan glanced quickly at Lionel, riding beside him and then at the rest of the boys. Gareth and Lamorak were pale and wide-eyed, obviously listening with great interest for what Lucius was about to describe. Lancelot looked absolutely miserable, and Tristan wished there was something he could do to lighten the self-imposed wall of resolute misery he had erected around himself. Galahad was riding beside Gawain as usual, and Tristan noticed how he kept looking at his older friend as though to make sure he was still there. The rest followed in their usual pairs: Boris and Dagonet, Degore and Alynore, Brumear and Pelleas, Percival and Bedevere. Only Lancelot rode alone, bringing up the rear in dejected silence._

"_Come on, Lucius, don't keep us waiting. What happened?" probed Sejanus, voicing what everyone else wanted to say._

_Lucius' freckles stood out boldly against the sudden pastiness of his face as he raised haunted eyes. "Decimation."_

"_By the gods," swore Valeria, "I didn't think that was still done."_

_The Romans all grew quiet, so quiet that the soft sound of their horse's hooves and the more distant caws of the still battling crows were the only sounds._

"_So what is it?" blurted Lamorak, unable to remain quiet and quite frankly scared to death by the apparent shock of the Romans. If this decimation rendered these battle hardened men so mute then what must this terror be, and more importantly, was it something which he and Gareth might face this night. The poor lad felt near to wetting his own pants as he waited._

"_Shut up, boy," growled Justus, "it's Roman business."_

"_They're going to be serving Rome," argued Patrobas, "they might as well learn here and now what can happen when the discipline of a unit is breeched."_

_Bringing up the rear of the group, Lancelot blanched at those words remembering how Quentas told him he had undermined the discipline of his unit._

"_Wh, wh, what is decimation?" stuttered Gareth, almost afraid to know._

_Tristan smiled inwardly, realizing that the boy always stuttered when he was nervous. Tristan was leaning the little quirks and traits that made them each individuals._

"_It's something I hope none of you ever has to see," sighed Lucius, his normally soft voice strained and hoarse sounding. "It happened to my last unit when a few of the men balked at an order and showed cowardice before a Tribune. Every tenth man of our cohort was chosen by draw of lots. Those of us left were ordered to club them to death. Forty eight good men died that day. My closest friend was one of them."_

_A deathly quiet fell once again over the troop, blanketing the men with dread as they each envisioned such an act within their own unit."_

"I said, what do you want?"

Lancelot opened his eyes to see the surgeon looking him. Fatigue was written on every line of the man's face, for he had obviously been up all night working on the injured Romans.

"Well, are you injured?" asked the doctor. Augustus Flavia looked over the Sarmatian, relieved not to see any obvious injury. It had been a difficult night, a night in which the doctor had labored long and hard, but in the end, had been unable to save the leg of his youngest patient.

Augustus Ferratis Flavia was normally considered as a disgrace to the healing profession. He would readily and loudly admit to any who asked that he remained in the Legions because he had no place else to go, yet on nights like this one, the professional he had once been would rise to the surface, like gold being separated from the dross.

Lancelot was seemingly mute, stunned by the differences between this man and the one he had witnessed attempting to work on Galahad.

"Cat got your tongue, boy?" smiled the doctor. "Well, no matter, come with me. I favor a hot mug of tea or I shall be asleep on my feet before my job is complete." The doctor turned back to his aide, "Mind the young one, Lero, and call me if he becomes feverish."

The doctor led Lancelot into the next room. He motioned for the knight to sit in one of the chair at the table while he removed the soiled surgical apron and washed his hands in a basin of water. He next moved a kettle over to hang above the fire. He ladled some tea leaves into the pot to heat, and then set two mugs on the rough table.

Lancelot was surprised to realize that the doctor meant to share his tea with him. When the knight made as though to rise, the doctor motioned him back down.

"Sit, sit," insisted the Roman. "I seem to recall behaving badly the last time you were here, and I would like the chance to make amends. How is the lad's shoulder?"

If Lancelot was surprised before, this question astounded him

The Roman chuckled as the watched the emotions on the knight's easily read face. "Surprised, eh? Well, I surprise myself some days."

"Surprised is putting it mildly. The last time I was here you called me a slave."

Flavia's eyes narrowed. "I did, eh? Well, I do apologize for that. Guess I don't have to tell you that I was drunk as a skunk that night. It makes me mean, I'm afraid. The truth is, most of the time I'm just a lonely old sot, but sometimes..." he held up his finger as though emphasizing his words, "some times I am once again the man I remember being before the wine demon stole my soul."

Unsure of what to say, Lancelot simply nodded. The knight was still reeling from the surprise of finding the doctor in such an affable mood.

"I heard that the one who hurt the boy was punished," the doctor said after a few moments. He got up to open the shutter, allowing light to stream into the room. Wincing slightly at the brightness, the doctor returned to his seat at the table.

Lancelot was non-committal. "I heard that as well."

Flavia smiled and nodded his head. "That is good. I tell you this, son, war can change a man. I've seen it too many times. Sometimes it makes cowards out of the brave and sometimes it warps the kindest soul into the sort of man that takes pleasure in inflicting pain."

The doctor sighed deeply. "Aye, this water is hot now." Bringing the steaming pot over to the table, the doctor held a linen cloth under the spout to catch the tea leaves as he poured the hot beverage into the mugs. "It's a fine restorative, this tea. Have you tried it before?"

"No," said Lancelot, as he looked warily at the mug. "It's...hot!"

The doctor chuckled again. "Yes, it's hot. No...no!" he motioned, stopping the knight from taking a drink. "First put in some honey. There is a pot there on the shelf. Bring it over here."

Lancelot retrieved the sticky pot from the shelf and sat it on the table. He watched as the doctor ladled some first into his mug and then into Lancelot's mug. "Honey is a fine medicine, did you know that?" asked the doctor. "It disinfects and seals wounds. The ancient Egyptians used it. The great physician himself, Imhotep, first discovered the value of honey for wounds."

"I don't know much about the Egyptians, I'm afraid," replied Lancelot, embarrassed by his lack of education. The Sarmatians were nomadic and pastoral by nature, but a generous and loving people, if somewhat distrustful of strangers. Years of strife and war had made them somewhat insular, tending to trust only their own kind and fear the unknown. For the most part they were an unlearned people. They had no tradition of writing, and books or scrolls would have been a hindrance in their way of life. Their history and their rich culture were handed down orally through the generations by the tales of valor passed from parent to child. Their culture revolved around their horses, and they placed value on each other rather than on material wealth.

"So you don't know the Egyptians?" asked the doctor. "Well, no matter. They were a magnificent force for many years, but now they have passed into memory."

"Are they all dead, then?" asked Lancelot, genuinely puzzled.

"Dead, no, but passed from greatness," said the doctor sadly. "It is the way of the world that all empires rise and fall. As men are born, and thrive, and fade into old age, so, too, do nations."

"And that makes you sad..." observed Lancelot.

The doctor sat down heavily in the chair opposite the knight. "Yes, that makes me sad. We all fight change and want to see the life we know remain the same. We humans like to believe we like progress, young one, but change is its motivator, and change has its enemies. Now, why have you come to see me, young knight, particularly after I insulted you the last time you were here?"

If the abrupt change of subject surprised him, Lancelot did not show it, and he quickly explained about Pelleas' sickness, describing the herbs his mother had used for his younger brother. "Have we such herbs available here?"

"No," replied the doctor, stroking his chin as he thought, "but I do have something that should help the boy. It is called mint. I will send you some of the leaves as well as some of the tea. Before each journey, brew the tea and the mint leaves together. He might even take some along in a separate pouch. It should settle his stomach."

"Thank you, doctor," Lancelot said. He rose to take his leave, but the doctor stayed his motion with a question.

"What is your name, son?"

Lancelot stood by the table and met the man's eyes. "Lancelot. My name is Lancelot."

"Well, Lancelot, if any man ever again calls you a slave, you bust him in the nose, and that includes me. As long as you're free up here," he indicated his head by tapping on his temple with his finger, "you'll never be a slave."

Lancelot nodded his head slightly and turned to leave. He paused by the door to look back. "Thank you for the herb and tea leaves for Pelleas."

"You just remember what I said," replied the doctor, "and next time you come to see me I'll tell you about the Egyptians." As the knight left and closed the door, the doctor muttered to himself, 'that is if I'm not dead drunk again.'

Lero appeared at the curtained door. "Doctor, the young one is feverish."

TBC

A/N: Sorry there's not much Tristan this chapter, but I have to write what comes to me. I miss him too!


	25. Chapter 24, Calm before the Storm

**Tristan's Story**

**Chapter 24**

**Calm before the Storm**

"Let us hold to the light while we may, for darkness ever encroaches." Anon

_Before each journey, brew the tea and the mint leaves together. He might even take some along in a separate pouch. It should settle his stomach."_

"_Thank you, doctor," Lancelot said. He rose to take his leave, but the doctor stayed his motion with a question._

"_What is your name, son?"_

_Lancelot stood by the table and met the man's eyes. "Lancelot. My name is Lancelot."_

"_Well, Lancelot, if any man ever again calls you a slave, you bust him in the nose, and that includes me. As long as you're free up here," he indicated his head by tapping on his temple with his finger, "you'll never be a slave."_

_Lancelot nodded his head slightly and turned to leave. He paused by the door to look back. "Thank you for the herb and tea leaves for Pelleas."_

"_You just remember what I said," replied the doctor, "and next time you come to see me I'll tell you about the Egyptians." As the knight left and closed the door, the doctor muttered to himself, 'that is if I'm not dead drunk again.'_

_Lero appeared at the curtained door. "Doctor, the young one is feverish."_

As Lancelot exited the infirmary, he was surprised to find Patrobas and Scaro pacing nervously outside. Seated on a bench to the left of the door were Quentas and Rufus. The younger pair immediately came to him as he exited.

"How is Lucius?"

"Did you see Lucius?" they both asked at once.

Lancelot flashed back to the covers ending at the knee and realized that these two did not know their friend had lost his leg, and still might lose his life to the fever claiming him. "Perhaps you should talk to the doctor," he hedged, noticing out of the corner of his eye the look Rufus gave Quentas at his comment. Both of them were experienced enough to know exactly what that evasion probably meant.

"Well, I cannot just wait out here knowing nothing," growled Scaro.

The man made a move towards the door, but Rufus was faster. The big man rose from his seat and put himself squarely in front of the door, shaking his head slowly at Scaro. "You are too frustrated to even think of going inside, Scaro," he said. "Gather yourself and stand down." His dark brown eyes never left the face of the Roman.

Scaro stared over Rufus' shoulder for a moment and then forced himself to step back. "I only want to know how the boy is doing," he murmured.

"Quentas will speak with the surgeon when he is available and let us know how Lucius fares," the Carthaginian replied. "In the state you are in now, you would only distract the physician and delay your friend's care. Is that what you want?"

"You know it is not, but I saw the surgeon talking to Lancelot," challenged Scaro. "Why is he not available to speak to us now?" Frustration at the waiting and fear for his friend sharpened his words.

"Since he has spoken with the surgeon, perhaps Lancelot can shed some light on the situation." The softly spoken words had come from Quentas, and the three men turned to look at him. "Well, Lancelot, what about it?"

Lancelot swallowed. For all their bluster and discipline, he could see that the Romans were not any different than him and his fellow Sarmatians. Whatever uniform they wore, they cared about their fellow soldier...their friend. The politicians never seemed to appreciate the lengths to which a man at arms will go for the man fighting beside him...and they could never truly understand the depths of loyalty that shedding blood together forges. The Sarmatian cleared his throat nervously. "As I was leaving, the physician was told that Lucius had a fever." He would gladly leave it at that, and moved to leave.

Quentas' words halted him. "Give us the rest, young one, for I can see on your face there is more."

Lancelot sighed. He should have known they would not let it be. There was no easy way to say it. "They had to cut off his leg at the knee."

Patrobas groaned and turned his back to the group, and Scaro's grizzled countenance grew even stonier. "He cannot even go back to his father's business now. What use is a one legged fisherman?"

"Easy lads," said Rufus, "he has his life, and he will have his pension, which is more than many we've left dead on the fields of battle."

It was then that Quentas rose from where he had been seated. He put his hand on Lancelot's shoulder. "Thank you, Lancelot. That was not easy news to bear, but we needed to hear it. You may leave now."

"Thank you, sir," the Sarmatian automatically responded, falling back into the easy discipline of his training days. Lancelot walked quickly away, leaving the four Romans to await further news of their friend. He still held the bag of tea and mint, so he decided to go put it in the bunk house until he could speak privately with Brumear and Pelleas and explain to them what the physical had suggested.

As he entered the bunk house he noticed that Tristan was sitting on his bunk fletching arrows. The scout preferred to make his own rather than use the standard Roman issue and spent a lot of his spare time perfecting his craft. Batraz was perched - where he often was - in the rafters above Tristan's bunk, his keen eyes following Lancelot's every movement as he entered the room.

The ones Lancelot sought were together as he knew they would be. Brumear had taken a bad fall from his horse a few days earlier and sprained his knee. He had been on enforced bed rest since. He was growing quite tired of it, and Pelleas spent his off time sitting with his friend telling him stories and catching him up on what all the others were doing.

"What is this?" laughed Lancelot, stopping at the foot of Brumear's bunk.

"Jols constructed it to keep his leg elevated," said Pelleas. "Is it not something?" The redhead's fair face shone with a sea of freckles acquired from the amount of time he spent outdoors on patrols.

Lancelot walked around to the side of the bed examining the elevated leg. It rested on a padded platform that began with a slope from the knight's hip to his knee and then leveled off so that his lower leg was parallel to the bed. "It is...something."

"If you laugh, I swear – bum leg or not - I'll get you back," warned Brumear.

"Don't mind him, Lancelot," grinned Pelleas, "he is just tired of the inactivity."

"I told him I would cut off his leg," observed Tristan, seemingly completely serious, "but he did not favor that solution." The knight shrugged his shoulders as though surprised that his solution was not accepted. He continued fletching his arrows as though this bizarre conversation was completely normal.

Lancelot started at him a moment, flashing back to the surgery and the paleness of Lucius. Shaking his head, he turned back to Brumear and Pelleas. "Here," he said, tossing the bag of tea and herbs onto the bed, "brew some of this before each mission."

In a flash of feather, Batraz swooped in and snagged the bag before Brumear could even pick it up. "Hey!" the knight shouted. "Damn it, Tristan, get that back for me!"

Pelleas jumped up and was following the eagle as he worked his way from rafter to rafter, his treasure securely held in his talons. "Come on, Traz, give it to me," he coaxed. Several times the knight made a jump for it, but Batraz was enjoying the game to much to surrender his prize just yet.

The chase was interrupted by Arthur coming in. "Lancelot, Tristan, let's go."

Putting aside the arrows, Tristan whistled for Batraz and held up his arm. The eagle obediently came to him. Tristan pulled the bag from Traz's talon and tossed it Brumear.

"I'll be back," Pelleas told Brumear.

"No Pel," interrupted Arthur, "you just got off patrol. Sit this one out."

"I'm not tired," protested Pelleas, "I don't need to be coddled."

"Don't argue with Arthur," snapped Lancelot, which in itself was laughable given that Lancelot argued everything with Arthur.

Brumear snorted, obviously picking up on the irony of Lancelot's statement. "Come on, Pel, keep me company. I'm am about to die from boredom here."

Pelleas sighed and sat back down mumbling to himself. "They treat me like I'm a baby. I bet Galahad is going!" His face was flushed and his green eyes flashed with anger.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," replied Brumear. "Galahad didn't just get off a long patrol either. Settle down," he smiled, "you're as flustered as Batraz when he spies a rodent." Brumear, as always, was a calming influence...one on which Arthur often relied with this tempestuous group.

Pelleas blushed at the truth of his friend's word and gave Brumear an embarrassed smile. "You're right," he sighed sheepishly. "I just hate it when they all go out without me."

"I know," Brumear said, sobering. "I know..."

Lancelot caught up to Arthur as the commander strode quickly across the training yard. "What is up?"

"One of the scouts picked up signs of Woad activity close by. They may be planning a major assault, and we're going to see what we can learn."

"How many," Tristan questioned as they headed for the stables.

"That's what we're going to find out," answered Arthur.

Tristan glanced at Lancelot with raised eyebrows.

Lancelot whistled softly. "So we could be facing a thousand."

Arthur gave him a sidelong glance. "Being your usual optimistic self, Lance?"

The knight was saved from answering by their arrival at the stables.

Jols was preparing the supply horses, packing them with extra weapons, healing supplies, food, and anything else he thought might be useful. The squire was a native born Briton who had lived among the Romans all his life. His father, Wallis had served as a squire for the Sarmatian Knights a generation before, and Jols was proud to follow in his footsteps. Wallis had died a few years earlier, but Jols' mother still lived nearby. As boys he and Arthur had played together until they reached an age where the difference in their stations had forced them to seek different paths and Arthur was sent away for training. Oh, the boys had ever felt a difference in themselves, but the conventions of the times made acceptance of such dictates, especially for Jols, normal. He was proud of his service and happy to serve such good and brave men. Jols had no desire for the mantle of leadership with its inherent responsibilities. He had seen all too clearly how heavily it rested upon Arthur's shoulders.

The squire watched the knights gathering as he continued loading the pack horses, noting the easy camaraderie of the group. Gawain was teasing Galahad about something or other, and the boy's cheeks were pink with embarrassment. Bedevere was strapping his gladius to his saddle. The knight was left handed, so Jols had made a special attachment to hold the instrument on the right side of the saddle so that Bedevere could easily draw it with his sword arm.

Bors was talking, as usual, as he led his horse from its stall...and just as usual, Dagonet was silently going about his business. Together they balanced each other out quite nicely. Lamorak was securing extra arrows for his quiver. Tristan and Lamorak were easily the best archers in the group and constantly competed, each trying to be the best, which was probably why Tristan was always experimenting with different arrows.

Percival and Gareth were working on their saddles. As he watched them, the squire realized that he rarely ever heard Gareth stutter any more. He smiled to himself as he realized that the youngster had grown not only in body and ability, but in his self confidence. He had come a long way from the cowed boy that arrived at the base. Jols had heard, of course, of the discipline that had been meted out to Gareth and Lamorak during the journey here, and he was glad to see that it had achieved its desired end, for both were fine soldiers now.

Jols knew that Pelleas had just returned from a patrol with Lionel and figured that they, along with the injured Brumear, would not be joining this mission. He made sure himself that their horses had been walked, dried and brushed and were now stabled, for he never trusted the knight's mounts to the stable boys without overseeing them himself.

With a last flurry of activity the knights complete their preparations and led their horses out into the yard to mount. Arthur in the lead, the troop departed the fort for their mission. It would be a momentous one.

TBC

A/N: If you're still with me, you have my thanks. I hope you enjoy this chapter.


	26. Chapter 25, Into the Fray

**Tristan's Story**

**Chapter 25**

**Into the Fray**

"_**Every action of our lives touches on some chord that will vibrate in eternity." Edwin H Chapin**_

The sentries came to attention as the Knights, led by Arthur and riding two by two, pounded from the fort. Jols, leading a tethered pair of pack horses, brought up the rear. They made an impressive show, these young warriors on their fine steeds, and the battle savvy Romans were glad to have them fighting with them rather than against them.

The irony was that the Knights truly understood the position of the Woads, and many sympathized with it. They too had lost their country to the Romans. To Galahad, in particular, it seemed that they were fighting on the wrong side, and the young man chaffed at any order given to him by a Roman other than Quentas or Rufus, who he had come to know and trust.

For practical Tristan, it was not a matter of motive, but of survival. Whatever their motivation, the Woads wanted to kill the Knights...it was just that simple. Tristan had no quarrel with the Woads personally, but battle was not about philosophy. His job was to survive and to get Lionel back home the same way. To do so meant following orders and becoming the best warrior he could become.

Beyond getting Lionel back home, Tristan did not think much about his future, unlike Gawain who constantly dreamed of the wife he would find and the children he would sire. He longed to return to the shores of the Black Sea where his family had a home...a real, wooden home rather than the tents of the more nomadic tribe to which Tristan and Nell belonged. Gawain, Galahad, and Bedevere had all come from a tribe that had settled and made homes by the sea, where fishing and trading made life more stable than for the wilder tribes to the east.

To Lancelot it had become personal the day he found Degore's mutilated body.

"Tristan," called Arthur as the troop drew nearer the tree line of the forest.

Tristan signaled Oxsus to pick up the pace and soon drew along side the commander. He knew, of course, what Arthur wanted, but was content to await the verbal order.

"Scout ahead," said the commander, "but be careful!" Arthur always added that caveat to his order for the scout to begin his duties.

Tristan nodded his head, hiding the smile that came threatened to come. There was something comfortable in the fact that Arthur always said those same words. Tristan liked that he could predict what the warriors beside him would do and how they would react. That gave him an edge and helped him to keep them all alive. The scout raised his arm to signal Batraz to take flight and pulled ahead of the group.

As the troop entered the thick forest, the very air seemed suddenly oppressive. A thick fog had been gathering about them, making the gloom of the woodland even more murky and making the mounts of the Knights even more skittish. For once even Bors seemed to catch the eerie mood of the place and keep quiet.

"Arthur," Lancelot called quietly, for the riders were now single file and there was not room for him to pull beside the commander. "How are we supposed to find any signs in this place?"

Arthur concurred with his friend and second in command, but did not voice his doubts. It had been drummed into him too many times that a commander never showed indecision to those he was leading. He held up his fist to signal the group to halt. His instincts were screaming at him that this place was ripe for an ambush, that they would never find what they were looking for in such a dense section of woods.

"Arthur," Lancelot repeated more forcefully. "We must get to where we can fight should the need arise."

"I am aware of that, Lance," replied Arthur, "but my orders are explicit."

"If the twelve of us cannot maneuver, then surly you do not think that a large group of Woads could? We will not find signs of them here, for they will have to pick a more open area to maneuver."

Arthur glanced back at the trailing group of men before looking back at Lancelot. "Nothing the Woads do surprises me."

"You sound as thought you think them magical?' scoffed Lance. When Arthur did not answer immediately, the warrior raised an eyebrow in question. "They are men, Arthur, nothing more."

"I know they are men," Arthur responded angrily. "I have put my sword into enough of them to be quite sure of that fact."

"But?" urged Lancelot.

"Dagonet, Bors," Arthur called back to the men. "Spread out and watch our flanks."

"But?" repeated Lancelot.

Arthur glanced back again and noticed Jols having trouble with the rear pack horse. "Alynore, help Jols." After watching the sandy haired knight dismount and start back towards the squire, he turned his attention back to Lancelot. "Their leader is most unusual..."

"So is ours," interrupted Lancelot with a grin.

"Are you going to listen to me or amuse yourself?" snapped Arthur, for the proximity of the forest seemed to be closing in around him.

Lance held up his hands in surrender at Arthur's uncharacteristic outburst.

Arthur sighed at the motion, aware of how ridiculous his words were going to sound. He stepped nearer Lancelot so that none of the others could overhear. "It is as though their leader is in my head at times."

"In your head?" questioned Lancelot, his face showing his surprise. "Think you that he knows your thoughts?"

Arthur shook his head slowly. "I only know that I feel a connection to him."

Lancelot grew serious watching Arthur's demeanor. "Very well," he said at last. "I know there are things in this world that I cannot explain and this may be one of those things." He continued to slowly. "Perhaps we can use this ...connection, as you call it, to our advantage."

O-o-O-o-O

Thick, dark lashes batted against tanned cheeks made sallow by fever. Dark curls, grown out a bit from the normal short cut, lay plastered to the sweat soaked forehead of the young legionnaire. A soft moan escaped from Lucius as he fought the demons in his fevered dreams.

Flavia sighed as the applied the cooling cloth to the boy's head. The fever was higher than he would have liked. Removing a leg was hard enough on a patient under the best of circumstances, but here in the wilds it was dangerous. But damn it all, Flavia protested to himself, he'd had no choice if he was going to save the lad's life. Aye, it was choices like this that had driven the man to drunkenness. Oh, he was not drunk now...would never do that when he had a patient. It was bad timing that the young Sarmatian had been brought in on a night when he'd given into his weakness. Well, he sighed, there was nothing he could do about that now.

The eyelashes batted again as Lucius fought his way to the surface of consciousness. It took several seconds for him to clear the haziness away and focus on the face of the man leaning over him. He half expected it to be Scaro, his best friend. "Doc...Doctor?" he questioned groggily.

"Rest now, young one, you've had a difficult time of it," replied Flavia.

"How did I get here?" asked Lucius. His mind was still fuzzy, but he last remembered being on patrol and being jumped by the Woads. "Where is the rest of my patrol?"

"You were brought in by one of your comrades," said the doctor. "That is all I know."

"Was no one else wounded," asked the man, looking around the room at the empty beds.

"No one else survived, son," answered the doctor gently, "only you and the man who brought you in."

Lucius' head dropped back onto the pillow with a soft thud. He had expended all his strength just trying to look around the room. "No," he grieved softly.

"You just rest now," advised the doctor. "There are some friends yours waiting outside if you are up to seeing them."

Lucius opened his eyes slowly. Flavia did not like the expressionless look on his face. He had seen this before when a troop was decimated. The survivor suffered guilt while grieving for his friends. He made the decision to bring in the visitors. A short visit would do the man some good.

Quentas, Rufus, Scaro and Patrobas were all still holding vigil outside the infirmary when the doctor opened the door.

Quentas and Rufus immediately rose from the bench where they had been sitting while the other two quit their pacing and faced the doctor.

"Why did you have to take his leg, you butcher" accused the normally mild mannered Patrobas. Tears sprung this his eyes and he furiously blinked them away.

"Stand down," ordered Quentas before the doctor could even react to the accusation. "What can you tell us, doctor?"

Flavia gathered his wits and ushered the men inside. "Your friend is still gravely ill, I'm afraid. He is awake however, and I feel that seeing you would do him some good."

"What can we do to help?" asked Rufus. "We can take turns sitting with him to spell you."

"I do not know..." the doctor stammered.

"Rufus has experience in healing," explained Quentas. "You would find him an able assistant for the boy."

"And we can learn what to do," insisted Scaro. "Anything is better than just waiting."

"There is more to tell," said the doctor.

"We know you had to take his leg," said Quentas. The Centurion was sympathetic to the doctor because he, too, had been placed in positions where he had to make difficult decisions throughout his career. "You saved his life and we are appreciative of that." He gave Patrobas a hard stare as he spoke those words.

Patrobas swallowed and lowered his head guiltily for a moment. "I am sorry for the way I spoke to you, doctor."

Flavia was surprised and oddly touched by the admission. He was not often treated with much more than contempt by the Roman regulars. "That's alright, son, I've been called worse."

"No," continued Patrobas, "it is not alright." He put his hand on the doctor's shoulder. "You have worked hard to save my friend and I do appreciate that fact. I allowed my grief to cloud my mind for a moment. I can see how weary you are. Sit down for a bit and allow us to take some of the load. I will fix you some tea while Rufus checks on Lucius."

Flabbergasted at the unexpected kindness, the doctor did as he was told, for it had been a long, exhausting night and day spent trying to save Lucius' life.

Quentas nodded his approval. "Scaro, you go with Rufus and I will stay here with the doctor and Patrobas. We do not want to tax Lucius' strength."

Scaro took a deep breath and let it out slowly before following Rufus into the surgery/convalescent room. He determinedly put a smile on his face. He would not allow his friend to see anything but support and positive attitude coming from him. As he reached the bedside he looked down at the pale face of his friend and tentatively placed a hand on Lucius' shoulder. "Are you awake, lad?" he asked softly.

Lucius' eyes opened a small smile touched his face as he looked into the grizzled countenance of his best friend. "What a face to have to wake up to," he quipped softly. His voice faltered slightly and he lapsed into a coughing spell.

"Here, take some of this," said Rufus, holding a cup of water to Lucius parched mouth and gently supporting his head while he sipped the cool liquid. "Not too much," he cautioned. "You do not want it coming right back up."

Lucius had to rest a moment after the drink, but then his eyes opened again. Alarm showed on his face as he grasped Scaro's shirt weakly with his hand. "The Woads...they were everywhere!"

TBC

A/N: Again, I apologize for the long delay in posting. If you are one of the few, faithful readers still following this story, I truly appreciate your patience and faithfulness. You deserve a big hug!


	27. Chapter 26, Highway to the Dangerzone

**Tristan's Story**

**Chapter Twenty Six**

**Highway to the Dangerzone**

**"_True valor lies between cowardice and rashness." Miquel de Cervantes_**

It was the day after sitting in the surgery and Quentas had risen early to watch the knights depart. At sunup he was already on the parade ground, practicing the pilum. The six-foot-long pilum's spearhead was attached to a wooden pole by a slender metal rod. At the juncture of the two shafts a brass weight added balance and served as a handgrip. The brass weight also permitted the pilum to bend once it was inside an enemy's shields necessitating that the pilum could not be removed from the shield and the shield then had to be discarded by the enemy. Everyone knew, of course, that an enemy without a shield was vulnerable. Other than the arrows used by the archers, this form of javelin was the primary projectile weapon employed by the Romans. Developed and refined, it had been in use for over four hundred years.

Even though technically retired form the legion, Quentas kept himself in constant drill with the pilum. A trio of targets, wooden shields propped against sheaves of straw, stretched out in front of him down the length of the practice ground. The nearest was twenty yards away with the farthest close to forty-five. Three javelins lay on the ground at Quentas' feet. Two spears already transfixed the nearest vaguely human form.

Despite the heft of the weapons, Quentas' next pair of throws, made at the middle target, were almost flat trajectories. The Centurion's strength of back, shoulders, and arms was such that he took no notice of the weight. Part of the satisfaction connected to each successful throw came from imagining Merlin as the mark. Every target bore the face of the Woad leader in Quentas' mind.

Though the physical effort was demanding, Quentas found his early morning drills gave him valuable time for reflection. This morning his mind was occupied with thoughts of young Patrobas lying in the surgery with half his leg missing.

For the final two throws, Quentas bent his body backward and angled the javelin toward the sky with a tremendous toss. The weapon arched into the morning sunlight, flashed across the intervening distance, and plunged downward into the top half of the shield. After hanging there an instant, the shaft holding the barb sagged under the drag of the bronze grip. As the rod bent, the shield was tugged away from the straw man. "Find yourself in my sights, Merlin, and you too shall wear my pilum," vowed Quentas as he walked away from the practice field.

As he neared his quarters, Quentas was met by Tribune Marcus Gallo.

O-o-O-o-O

Lancelot rode ahead of the group and located a likely spot for them to camp for the night, knowing that Tristan would be back by now if he detected any problems. The knight had a bad feeling about this entire patrol, but then what else was new? The forest around him was so dense that he felt hemmed in and fervently hoped they would not be required to do battle within their confines. He preferred to draw out the Woads, enticing them to attack when the battle conditions were more in the knight's favor. Where they were now was definitely on Woad ground, and that made Lancelot extremely uneasy.

As Lancelot rejoined the group he passed Bors, who was guarding the group's left flank, mirrored by Dag on the right. "What are you frowning for?" yelled Bors.

"Shut up, Bors," Lancelot growled. "You might as well announce our presence to every enemy within a hundred leagues with that mouth of yours!"

"Bring them on," rejoined Bors. "I prefer a good fight to all this skulking around in theses god forsaken woods!

"Bors!" said Arthur, as he walked up to the feisty knight. "If you do not keep quiet I will send you back to the fort."

"You would just get yourselves killed without me!" hollered Bors indignantly.

Arthur smiled wolfishly. "Then stay quiet and stay _here_!" He turned and strode off, leaving the blustering knight sputtering. Ah, it always lifted his spirits to verbally joust with Bors.

"Lance," Arthur acknowledged as Lancelot drew near the remaining knights.

"There is a _somewhat_ defensible spot less then a league ahead," he reported.

"Curb your enthusiasm," Arthur replied drolly.

Lancelot's eyebrow rose a fraction. "Since when did you become so eager for this mission?"

Arthur shrugged. "I accept the inevitable."

Lancelot snorted. "Arthur, the eternal optimist!"

"Lancelot, the eternal pessimist!" Arthur rejoined.

"Ah, but I am never disappointed!" replid Lancelot smugly, "whereas you are continually let down by those in whom you place so much trust."

Arthur walked over to where Jols and Alynore had tethered the pack horses. "I am sorry the going is so difficult for you, Jols. Another league and you can unpack those supplies."

"You just lead the way, my Lord," replied Jols. "We will follow."

O-o-O-o-O

Tristan dismounted Oxus when the denseness of the forest became too much for them both. The scout led his Arabian to where the thickness was less and the pair could better maneuver. There was no way he could scout in this area, it was just too thick. The scout was tempted to climb a tree to see if he could gain a better view that way, but his boots and leathers were not optimal for that activity. Sighing in disgust, Tristan led Oxus further from the area, until he could actually see the ground and look for tracks or signs.

The Woads definitely had the advantage in this setting, for they wore little beyond their native dress and were not weighed down by heavy boots, armor, or restricting leathers. He had seen them seemingly disappear into the merest puff of mist at the slightest provocation, always content to wait until the advantage fell in their direction.

Tristan forced himself to still, drawing on all the skills he had been taught here and by his father at home. He allowed himself to become one with his surroundings, even closing his eyes as he absorbed and identified the individual sounds of the forest around him. He could hear a stream nearby and turned his senses in that direction first. He knew that animals would be drawn to the water source and that tracks of the two legged variety would be more easily seen there as well. It was a good start.

Tying Oxus to a tree, Tristan kept alert as he made his way over to the stream. Along the way he watched for the signs, easily identifying the smaller variety of animals from rabbits to fox. Ever so slowly he made his way towards the water, kneeling down to move aside some of the vegetation to better scout the ground.

There were tracks…plenty of them, but they appeared to be older…perhaps even a week old. Tristan crisscrossed the area on both sides of the stream verifying his original assessment. No humans had been in this area, at least near the stream, within the past week. After widening his search for a good distance in each direction with no findings, Tristan was content that the Woads had were not in the vicinity. He would report his findings to Arthur.

Tristan walked back to Oxus and reached to untie his mount when the rope dropped around his shoulders and he was dragged up into the trees.

TBC

A/N: Mea culpa, my friends! Please forgive me for my slow updates! This chapter is short, but I thought it would get me back into the action.


	28. Chapter 27, Look Within

**Tristan's Story**

**Chapter 27**

**Look Within**

"**_Things which you do not hope happen more frequently than things which you do hope." Titus Maccius Plautus_**

It took a moment for Tristan's mind to register the horrible truth. One second he was reaching for Oxus and the next he was snared. He now hung suspended above the forest floor, his arms pinned to his side by the vine rope around his chest. How was this possible? The scout had seen no sign of the Woads, and as frustrated as he was at this turn of events, he was even madder at himself for being careless.

It was only minutes before the Woads appeared seemingly from nowhere. The wild men quickly made to lower him while one made the mistake of going for Oxus. The Arabian knew his master, and immediately put his hooves to the head of the clumsy Woad. Tristan snorted his approval only to receive a blow to his midsection in answer. Apparently the Woads did not find his horse's defense as humorous as he did.

Warily the wild men quickly tied Tristan's feet while one held him from behind. Once this was done they took his knives and then roughly pulled his hands behind him to tie as well. Only once his hands and feet were secured did they remove the vine from his chest.

Tristan's mind was racing. He head-butted the man holding him from behind and was gratified to hear his screech as Tristan's head broke the man's nose. The Woad immediately let go of Tristan and grabbed his bloody nose. With his feet tied tightly together, Tristan pitched over onto his side where he was the recipient of several kicks from the Woads.

The scout was roughly grabbed and hauled to his feet. He found himself tossed over the shoulder of the most massive Woad he had ever seen. The man would have dwarfed Dagonet! The breath was punched from his lungs as he impacted with the Woad's burly shoulder, and he found his face bouncing against the man's hairy back. If he could have breathed, Tristan would have been disgusted.

Oxus was kicking and holding his own against the Woads attempting to surround the beauty. Tristan got enough wind to whistle sharply and Oxus broke and ran. The Arabian would make his way back to the other knights, and that would alert them to the danger. At least Tristan had the consolation that the knights would be forewarned even if he was in a precious position himself.

Within a few short minutes, the Woads disappeared carrying their human cargo and the forest once again returned to the state it had been in before their arrival. So careful had they been that no signs of their being there would be found.

Upon the arrival back at their camp, or so Tristan assumed it was their camp, the knight was thrown down on his back. Rough hands seized him, pulling him up and cutting the bonds securing his hands and feet. His shirt was roughly cut from his body, leaving several lacerations. Tristan managed to pull loose one of his hands and smashed the face of the nearest Woad. Of course, it cost him dearly…he knew it would, but it was worth it for the satisfaction of feeling his fist connect with at least one of his tormentors.

The Woad who carried him there connected Tristan's chin with his massive, meaty fist. Blackness immediately seized the knight.

O-o-O-o-O

Jols tried to concentrate on unloading supplies from the pack horses. The squire was nervous. This was his first real mission with the knights and he young man was anxious to please Arthur and prove his worth before the knights. Jols had lived in Britain his entire life, but always within the confines of his village near the wall. This being in the wild was new to the squire and he was nervous, though he hoped to keep it masked from the knights.

"Relax," teased Alynore softly. His grin widened as Jols surprised eyes met his. "We were all nervous on our first mission," he shrugged. "Why should you be any different?"

Jols felt a flush of relief wash over him. "You were afraid?"

Alynore snorted, "I almost soiled myself I was so scared, but if you repeat that I will deny it." The Knight reached over to help with the unloading of the pack horses. He enjoyed being around Jols, and the pair had struck up a friendship of sorts.

"It is just so…dark and foreboding in this place," Jols confided to Alynore. The squire shivered. "I do not like it here."

Alynore glanced around to be sure he would not be overheard and confessed own apprehension at being in this place. "Of course, I would not want the others to know that."

Jols smiled. "From looks on their faces, they feel about as happy to be here are we are."

Alynore looked around and had to stifle his burst of laughter. Jols was right. Every one of the Knights looked as uneasy as they felt, and Lancelot looked downright dour.

The uneasiness of the knights was not lost on Arthur. He watched as Lancelot crossed the camp towards him and purposely led him slightly away from where the others were setting up camp. As the Sarmatian neared him, Arthur stopped and turned toward him. "I already know that you do not like this mission, Lance."

Lancelot ignored the sarcasm. "Have you noticed that Tristan has not returned?"

Arthur involuntarily glanced around camp, frowning. "He should be back by now."

"My point exactly."

"You know, Lance, you are really irritating sometimes," growled Arthur.

"I know, I really am," agreed Lancelot. "Now, shall we go find Tristan?"

"Look around, Lance," Arthur replied hotly. "I want to find him too, but where would you suggest we start?"

Lance just smiled. "I was thinking that we would start there…"

Arthur followed his gaze up to the trees. After a moment he found what it was that Lance was focused on. There on a limb sat an agitated Batraz.

O-o-O-o-O

Quentas led the hand-picked troop from the fort at full speed. Once Patrobas awakened and reported what he had seen of the Woad strength, the Tribune gave the Centurion permission to lead a troop out to find his Knights.

With Rufus by his side, the pair slipped back into the military mind set without wavering, for they had never truly left it. Though retired they still lived at the fort and would do so until their last set of trained knights left this island to return to their homes in far away Sarmatia. The two had already lost one of their flock when young Degore was slain and now most of the rest of them were in grave danger facing odds that they had no idea they faced.

The only question in their minds now was would they reach them in time?

O-o-O-o-O

_Tristan?_

The knight tried to clear his thoughts but everything seemed fuzzy and unreal. The fog around him was thick and unusually bright. Bright? Why was the fog bright? Nothing made sense to him.

_Tristan, look at me son._

Tristan turned his head towards the disembodied voice. "Father?"

_Aye, son, I am here. Open your eyes, Tristan; look at me._

"My eyes _are_ open."

The soft chuckle soothed him like balm on a wound. How he loved to hear his father's laugh. He thought he would never again be blessed to hear it.

_No, Tristan, your eyes are not open, but if you look for me, you will find me._

"Father…please do not leave me! I need you so very much!"

_I will never leave you, Tristan, you know this._

Why can I not see you then?

_You are looking in the wrong places for me. Look inside yourself, Tristan. That is where you will find me._

A thought came to Tristan. "Am I dead, Father?"

His father's laugh washed gently over Tristan, comforting him. _No Tristan, you are not dead._

"Please father, I want to come home. Take me home."

_Soon, Tristan, soon…_

_TBC_


End file.
